Dpal be'u
by I'm Nova
Summary: Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, did not die at the Reichenbach Falls, in 1891 - he was turned. Into a vampire. More than a century later, story seeems to repeat...but not only the happy parts of it come back. Many happy returns, Sendai!
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: Obviously, I do not anything you recognize._

 _The lengthy A.N.: First of all, Happy Birthday Sendai! So many happy returns, my dear._

 _Second, I do so apologize about this story being incomplete today, my dear. I honestly thought it would be a nice oneshot. Instead, the Muse had other plans – and I have learned never to argue with the Muse, whether she's in the mood for 221Bs or a rewriting the length of the Odyssey (which, hopefully, this won't be!)._

 _Third, all hail Chrwythyn for agreeing graciously to the hard work of betaing and britpicking my story._

 _Lastly, the meaning of the title: it actually is Tibetan for 'endless knot', symbol of a)eternal love and friendship; b)the eternal continuum of mind; c) Samsara, i.e. the endless cycle of suffering or birth, death and rebirth. It seemed to fit the boys. Enjoy! (Hopefully)._

Dpal be'u

Sherlock Holmes is dead. No, not in the 2012 sham you might have heard about. He died in 1891, 4th May. You could even have read the account of that. If you like him, really, you should have. What the XIXth century doctor Watson didn't know was how his broken, barely alive body was found by someone – _something –_ Holmes would have sworn fell into the impossible category at the time. A vampire. And God help him (not that He would, of course – not anymore), but Sherlock had accepted his offer, desperate to get back to one John Watson, MD.

He had spent the following three years with his sire, mastering his new body, its urges, necessities and capabilities, and learning to mimic perfectly a normal, living individual. He would – hopefully – be living with a _doctor_ again. It worked as well as it could be hoped; and if in the subsequent decades he had to make large use of his disguising prowess, or move before people noticed things were weird, it didn't matter.

When he lost his doctor, he left England and all its memories behind. But less than a century after, he was back home, in the wake of a different Mrs. Hudson. The lure of Mrs. Hudson and London and 221B, Baker Street had been simply too strong. And if he called his government-issued handler Mycroft – he hadn't known at first that the British Government was now aware of the existence of preternatural creatures like him – the bout of nostalgic irony was allowed. Finding a different Lestrade (an actual relative, this time) had been an added bonus, and for a moment he'd thought that life could pick up seamlessly as in 1881.

Well, not seamlessly. There couldn't possibly be any Watson this time. So he had firmly believed, only to be proven wrong. Mustache-less he might be, but this John Watson was so very like the man who had captivated him in his human life that Sherlock had wondered about reincarnation. Asked himself if he might have missed an in-between avatar of John Watson, and how could he ensure to find him each and every time from now on, because he _needed_ John. Simple as that.

Things were never easy, though. Not only because of the feelings he was so sure he had buried with his friend. What was he supposed to do with them? Confused or misdirected as he tried to tell himself they were, they were still powerful. But John wasn't _his_ Watson, and he (loudly) wasn't interested in being his anything. Hell, to Wilkes John had even denied being a friend. (Of course he wasn't yet; too soon; that had been a pathetic slip of tongue.)

Because he had soon determined that this Watson wasn't quite human, too. It might have been a cause of mirth, finding each other in other species, if one of them had been some other sort of creature. But nobody observant could mistake the current John for anything but a werewolf. And his sire, in the crash course he'd provided before leaving him on his own, had informed him that Weres – or _dogs_ – hated and despised their kind, and were heartily reciprocated. Sherlock thanked fate that he had already perfected his human impression. Still, the fear that he'd slip or come short against John's heightened senses clogged constantly the back of his mind. He couldn't have John – any John – hating him. He wouldn't be able to bear it.

For a time, he was happy. Once again, John and he had instantly clicked. He had found (recovered?) a friend. It was a heady feeling. Sherlock had even managed to trick himself into ignoring the homonym (because it couldn't be anything else) of his old nemesis. Until the game was on, again, and the sheer pleasure of being evenly matched after so long left him almost giddy. If the others had known that he had waited more than a century for that, they would have been more forgiving towards his enthusiasm. A lot more freaked out by him too, obviously, so he wasn't about to tell them.

He was made to pay for his inappropriateness, though. For a heartbreaking moment of uncomprehending agony, he'd really believed that his – flatmate – could possibly have betrayed him since the very start. Even then, over the, "It's not supposed to be like that," inside him roared the, "It's _my fault_." Because, Moriarty? It meant that John had found him out. Researched him, his nature, his past. And he had decided to strike accordingly.

When James – _Jim_ – had showed himself, Sherlock had to consciously refrain from sighing in relief, even while he tasted terror because being blown to smithereens would _kill John_ , never mind his kind's strength. And a different fear crept on him, hearing Moriarty make pet jokes and casually mention that his snipers had "blessed silver bullets". _He knew._ At the very least about John. How did he know? People not involved with the supernatural didn't usually contemplate such things. Just their luck that Moriarty would.

When John had jumped on Moriarty with a guttural growl, admiration and love had surged overwhelmingly inside Sherlock, even knowing such a move wouldn't work. The snipers had aimed at him, instead. The blessing on the bullets would have inconvenienced him, probably. He'd never been subjected to them, and wasn't sure. He needn't worry, though, because John stood down.

Moriarty had laughed. "You've rather shown your hand there, doctor. Though I thought they were harder to train, Sherlock. Especially for your kind. Does he know to _what_ he's being so fiercely loyal?"

"Shut. Up." The sleuth had ordered angrily. He was going to be outed. His arm trembled with the temptation to blow them all up. End them before John could know and hate him. His friend deserved better, though. He waited for doom to come.

"A dead...sorry, undead leech. A vaaampire," Moriarty sangsong. "I thought dogs didn't like _ticks_."

Sherlock's eyes closed. He didn't want to see understanding and disgust dawning on his friend's face. Silence – hopefully disbelieving silence – set in. Then Staying alive sounded, incongruously. Moriarty hissed something (must have been his mobile phone, then, as he wasn't talking to them or his snipers) and then purred, "Laterz. Not sure how well playing dead will work for you, Sherly, but it's surely appropriate."

Steps, and then silence again, and he couldn't take the uncertainty. He swallowed around the lump lodged in his throat and opened his eyes. Moriarty was nowhere to be seen, and John seemed frozen. "Can I?" he whispered throatily, but acted before he received an answer, ripping the bomb from his friend and throwing it away. If he was rent apart for daring to touch John, it would be what he deserved.

John laughed weakly. "Christ, he's really mad, isn't he? You, a vampire."

The sleuth didn't believe it. He was safe. He could breathe. Then again, Moriarty was still free. What if next time he forced him into doing something that would prove his allegation beyond reasonable doubt? He wouldn't, he'd rather die, but... 'Moriarty' had threatened John already. What if he did it again? Sherlock would do anything for John Watson. Every avatar of his. And there was part of him that had hated to lie about this to John (and to Watson, before, so much). Better to test the waters now. He could always laugh it off if things turned out as sour as he expected. So, with false bravado, he said, "And what if I was?"

"Oh, well, that would be...Are you saying you are?" John replied, rather inarticulately.

"That would be what, John? Disgusting? Hateful? Horrific? Or maybe even freakish?" the sleuth blurted out, sidestepping his friend's question.

"I might surprise you, Sherlock," John answered with a smile. "No, if you are, I have to say the only point which troubles me a bit is how and on whom you choose to feed."

"You wouldn't need to worry. Nobody would. Let's just say if I was, Molly woldn't supply me only with random organs," he revealed, still holding onto hypothetic sentences he could pass off as a joke. There wasn't anything so convenient in place at first, of course, but he would not be delving into what he'd been forced to do at first.

"That sounds like a good arrangement. Yeah. For the sake of the argument," John replied, looking at him with a soft, amazingly accepting look in his eyes, and yet a humorous glint that said he didn't entirely believe they were discussing a mere academic hypothesis. How he could manage to convey so many emotions without a long and winding speech baffled the sleuth. Then again, he'd always trained himself to hide his feelings, rather than show them – for his and everyone's safety.

"If that was how it worked, and you weren't going to try and bite me or one of our friends...then basically you would still be you, Sherlock. Still the same amazing, annoying creature. It would be all fine. I couldn't reasonably complain. You know, always for the sake of the argument, if mythical creatures truly existed…then I would not be exactly normal either," the doctor revealed, ending in a chuckle. His brave John. Was he going to confess his nature, even given the way vampires normally considered weres mindless beasts? Was he even aware of that?

Sherlock spared him the necessity of admitting. "I figured that out a long time ago. Really, John, it was obvious. Let's put our cards down for a moment, give up the 'ifs' and talking as if it didn't concern us at all. I know what you are, but that's rather the point. Moriarty was right. Werewolves generally don't like...bloodsuckers," he gritted out. Giving him a chance to realize the enormity – the error – of his earlier acceptance.

John laughed again, loudly and unmistakeably fondly. "Obvious. Naturally. Well, only to you, I hope. But Sherlock, there's something else that should be obvious. You're my pack...unless you have objections, of course," the doctor ended on a sheepish note.

The sleuth's heart swelled at the unexpected lack of rejection – and more, so much more than that –, suddenly too big for his ribcage. "It's an honour, John Watson," he replied earnestly. Objections? He wasn't raving mad.

"Let's go home, then. Before Moriarty decides to barge in. I'm still smelling him near," the werewolf warned, frowning.

"Yes, John," the detective agreed meekly. Better to, before he forgot everything and everyone – most of all himself – and attempted to cuddle John here and now. Moriarty notwithstanding, being pack still did not allow him to rub against his friend…or did it? The only instructions he'd received about werewolves from his sire said 'stay away and engage only if necessary…but if so, make sure they're dead and that you make the body disappear.' None was applicable in this situation.

The cab ride home was a quiet affair, both apparently evaluating the new truth. Acceptance aside, certainly not having to hide anymore would have consequences?...Or maybe not, because as soon as they were inside the flat John put on the kettle, and asked, "It might not nourish you, but will you drink it still?"

Sherlock, instead of humming a vague assent, opted to quip, "I am still a British gentleman, you know."

"Of course," his friend laughed. "Maybe even a proper lord, uh? I could believe that easily."

"Ah, no…besides, I am rather certain that even if I had been, the death I faced before my rebirth as a vampire would have stripped me of any claim to my hypothetic title. What you consider 'absurdly posh' is just the effect of me being awfully old, John," the detective admitted playfully, trying to fight the ridiculous happiness John's – just as Watson's – praise always caused, even when he knew it would be in vain.

"How old, if I may ask? There's not some… vampire etiquette rule against that, is there? You're not a lady, at the very least," John asked, offering the sleuth a cup of perfect tea and looking uncertain and curious at the same time.

"Not for you. If you were a vampire, too, I'd think you were trying to compare ages and somehow claim that being older – which you could very possibly be – meant that you were superior in other fields, too, and I would certainly take exception to that. Even counting my human life before changing, I am a bit under two centuries old. I might be a toddler in nosferatu's perspective, but it doesn't stop me from feeling ancient sometimes," Sherlock revealed, taking a sip of his drink. He had started to ramble, hadn't he? Someone stop him.

"A toddler, uh? Not that I can claim any old age – got bitten fairly recently too, actually – but I can see their point. Maybe. Did they catch you mid-sulk?" his…blogger (not pen-and-paper biographer anymore, nowadays) teased fondly.

Still, the sleuth was very tempted to pout at the goading. Didn't he deserve a bit of respect, at his age? But that would only have confirmed his friend (still friend, at least)'s insinuation. He simply sniffed, "Don't be ridiculous, John," and took his violin to show his displeasure in a more refined way.


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: If you already forgot it…I am still not owning anything. ;-)_

For a while, things were good. Very good indeed. Not even the dangerous moments – like being stunned and momentarily incapacitated by a half-siren – could break his good mood. If anything, they enhanced it. Because John's alpha instincts flared up, when he thought his claim on a pack member was being challenged.

It wasn't a mating claim – or whatever the werewolves' term for that was, the detective really should inquire more about his friend's customs – but a claim nonetheless. Sherlock _might_ have indulged the most outrageous initiatives of the Woman not because he loved her, or because he was still ensnared by her powers, but because that provoked a jealous, dominant John display. John might not be his Watson, but this didn't mean that he couldn't entertain the fantasy.

Being _scented_ was almost enough to make the detective moan in such a way to rival her ringtone. He seriously needed to thank his handler. 'Mycroft' had put him up to that, thinking that she would not have power over him, since the vampire was already dead.

In truth, he did feel a spike in lust, which could perhaps be attributed to her influence. Only, it was mostly misdirected – not making him her eager slave, but fixating on John Watson 2.0, new and improved. Still, he admired her – recognized her as a worthy opponent, with more than a nice body to her name.

The one who seemed truly and fully immune to Irene's talents, instead, was his very hot-blooded and normally flirty blogger. One would think that the werewolf would be slobbering over such a gorgeous specimen of female, but she didn't seem to be able to obtain anything but a dark scowl from him.

It might be because Irene (probably a distant relative, actually) was only a half-siren, and she was concentrating her luring powers on the most dangerous – for her – consulting detective rather than his 'sidekick' (oh how most people misunderstood their dynamic). But honestly, Sherlock was not about to complain about John _not_ attempting to pursue yet another woman. He wasn't entirely insane.

Still, no matter how delightfully possessive John was, he never tried to stake a claim of the couple – in a sentimental and/or sexual – kind, to the sleuth's great disappointment. Not even after the siren pointed out that their relative immunity to her powers might be due to a preexisting attraction. John denied it a few times, before giving up on convincing her – like he did with Angelo – and his denial was enough to persuade the consulting detective to not breach the subject, no matter how encouraging the wolf's possessiveness seemed to be.

At least, John didn't violently object to the vampire shadowing him around – which his nose should have warned him of. It wasn't Sherlock's fault that his friend's natural wary nature had been entirely ruined by the modern Mycroft's continuous kidnappings, and made him an easy target for any criminal, supernaturally gifted or not, who deemed him an interesting hostage.

It wasn't that the sleuth thought his packmate (he'd adapted surprisingly quickly to the concept, cherishing it, even) couldn't hold his own. If anything, the former army doctor could be even more vicious in a fight than his undead friend, who at least tried – mostly – to keep his feelings divorced from his battle technique. Well, unless you threatened one of the few creatures he deeply…cared about. (Yeah, caring sounded about right.)

He just felt like he could breathe easier (ridiculous since he didn't need to breathe, he realized – still) when he had John in his line of vision. He didn't need to be close, much less acknowledged. Just knowing John was safe, going about his day, made him unwind. Fine, maybe he went a bit overboard. But he'd lost one John H. Watson, MD once already – the beloved idiot decided to volunteer in world war I despite his age and the fact that he'd fought enough wars for one lifetime, as Holmes had insisted – and he would be damned if he lost another one. Not if he could help it.

Which was how he heard John growl that there was no affair between them, there couldn't possibly be. And yes, he'd known that already, but it didn't make it sting any less. Watson – moustachioed, utterly Victorian, his Watson – hadn't been half that hard to seduce, despite all the misconceptions of their time.

He was hurt, and he couldn't express it. Not in any way that would cue John to his motivations. He might not mind a vampire packmate, but the vehemently not gay werewolf would certainly mind an openly pining flatmate.

Thank God for the breach of their home. Honestly, it was enough to make the sleuth despair for the common sense of their cousins abroad, the fact that someone would think invading the den of a vampire and a werewolf and threatening a sweet old lady was a good idea. Or even only a bloody former army Doctor and a consulting detective who'd faced and subdued a long line of murderers, if Mycroft hadn't shared their files with his CIA contacts.

Dealing with the idiots in his home was a good way to work out at least some of his hurt, though. Trasforming any other feelings into anger was a nice way of coping. Maybe he should thank whoever decided to pursue Irene's phone into 221B Baker Street. The wall would probably had taken the brunt otherwise – and both Mrs. Hudson and John objected to his concept of redecorating. (He hadn't known why back then, and he didn't understand it now. It wasn't like the wall would suffer.)

Of course, his flatmate had to have his share of the prey. The werewolf had got home before he expected – anytime someone insinuated that they might have that sort of connection, John usually took a long walk to work off some steam. Nobody shed blood in his home without the Captain's say so.

At the end, they were grinning at each other like teenagers – that felt good. And a sharp text at his handler had let him know to send someone to collect the garbage. Sherlock didn't mind being used as a tool to deal with others supernatural creatures. He did mind, very much, being sent in blind, with no knowledge of the players or the full situation. How did they expect him to be effective without the full data?

If, a short while later, he made a mess of the situation he was expected to contain, that wasn't his fault. It was entirely the responsibility of the silly humans, who thought keeping him in the dark and pointing him at people, like a gun, was the best course of action. He was wiser and older than any of them, and – certainly – had a will of his own.

Misdirecting him to believe the priority was the young royal relative made any other information Irene offered fair game. If deducing – showing off, fine, let's call it properly – got him John's delightful alpha display, why shouldn't he have done so?

'Mycroft' wasn't worth of his name, he started to believe. His actual brother would have never underestimated one's tools, nor ignored their nature. He showed off – even John realised that, even if apparently he did not see why, or whose admiration he was really seeking. Nevermind. It was better this way. If his blogger realized how badly his…packmate wanted to impress him, or exactly why, the results wouldn't be pretty, certainly. One thing was to be accepted as friend, or even family. Becoming one's lover was entirely a different story.

Maybe John wasn't exactly jealous, despite his displays. Not of him, at any rate. Perhaps he considered himself the alpha of the pack, and as such, holding every right to decide whom Sherlock got to partner with, because his mate should, by all accounts, enter the pack, if werewolves' traditions were as doglike as his sire believed. And Irene was clearly not trustworthy to his friend's satisfaction, not with her resume.

Why, possibly he even thought he was the only one with any right to mate at all, and that he should be the one getting Irene, if anyone had to. Lesser-ranked canines did not get to start a family, did they? Not that Sherlock was interested on starting a family with anyone who wasn't John, still he felt like he needed much more information on shifters' society and customs. If he showed an interest, would John be flattered or consider him nosy? Obviously, the sleuth could discover werewolves' boundaries by pushing at his friend and seeing what made him snap.

It was that reasoning – even if the idea of John truly livid at him terrified him – that made him decide to save Irene. Being only a halfbreed, she would have a hard time enthralling a crowd. That was the reason her enemies always sent whole units to deal with a single woman. The sleuth didn't offer any justification for his trip, nor offered John to come along. Whatever their relationship, if the shifter wanted to be his alpha he should press the issue…but he didn't. Nor did he comment on where his flatmate had been or what he'd done on his return. Could he have entirely mistaken the situation? Sherlock was loath to consult 'Mycroft' on werewolves' behavior, but maybe he should have.

Thankfully, it was only hours when their handler came by Baker Street – apparently, to talk with John. Had he become aware of the inclusion of Sherlock in the pack? Was he consulting his alpha? The vampire didn't know, and frankly, he didn't like it.

He was soon informed, though. " _Mycroft_ says that Irene is in America on a protection program. He seems to be under the impression she's actually dead, though. I must say I am not impressed. You'd think that for all the eyes he has, he would employ even a nose or two."

The consulting detective couldn't help it. He grinned, fangs showing. Disparaging this Mycroft was a lovely hobby.

"As for you, mister," his blogger continued, "I don't care who you roll in the hay – or bed, or whatever – with, but would it kill you to shower before trailing all her stench home?" He scrunched his nose with evident disgust.

"You drag your own bitches here," Sherlock countered, more bitter than he really had a right to show himself. "Inside the house we share. And I never protested."

"Well, why didn't you, if it upset you?" John queried, raising an eyebrow.

He couldn't say it. If he admitted his own…confused, yeah, confused and misdirected… feelings for the other man, anything could happen. True, they didn't jail inverts anymore, still – John laughing at him, or moving out, would be a nightmare he wasn't ready to face. So, of course, he sniffed, "It doesn't upset me. I'm just impressed by your lack of standards."

"Of course. Standards. I'm not saying Irene was ugly, but God, Moriarty's accomplice, really? Why don't you just ring Jim up, at this point? He gave you his number," his friend rebuked, glaring. When no answer was forthcoming after a few seconds – the sleuth apparently shocked into horrified speechlessness, if his nose wasn't wrong, he added sternly, "Shower, Sherlock. Now. I mean it."

"Make me," the detective challenged, finding his voice back. He wasn't sure what he expected.

Not John marching up to him and swatting his ass while grumbling, "Toddler, I swear," at any rate.

The vampire let out an undignified yelp and scrambled for the bathroom. He was blushing! He didn't even know he could blush without it being a purposeful act anymore. John had said 'toddler'. It wasn't sexual, it was discipline – as if he was a pup. But God, if his friend didn't want to claim him as a lover – as he kept insisting oh so loudly – he would do better to keep his hands in check before Sherlock couldn't control his own.

The sleuth lingered under the shower, with the double aim to thoroughly wash the woman's scent out and try to unwind. He could not follow his flatmate's example and pleasure himself. He should not need to – he was fucking dead, but apparently all of himself hadn't got the memo. The brain was the biggest sexual organ, and now his brain was on fire. Damn. If John – with his bloody sharp senses – heard or smelled him in the act, though, that would be a disaster of biblical proportions. Sherlock would not be able to deny longing for him, then.

It took a good long while, but finally the consulting detective felt better and ready to face his flatmate. He used an old bedsheet as bathrobe and braved the sitting room. "For the record, I didn't shag Irene Adler."

John snorted. "You are free to bed whomever you want, Sherlock. But I would appreciate if you didn't lie so brazenly. It is insulting that you think I would not realize that."

"No, I really didn't. She was trapped by a terror cell of jihadists in Karachi. I managed to help her run away. Once we escaped the more immediate threat, she said that going around dressed as a woman there would have exposed her to all manners of risks, and I couldn't argue with that. My own attire was concealing enough, so she demanded us to switch our clothes. I couldn't find a sensible objection to that," the detective explained softly.

"I bet you wouldn't. Damned siren. So you wore Irene's clothes and went around in drag, did you? For hours?" his flatmate growled.

"Yes. Of course, given the local weather, she had sweated a bit in there already. I suspect that's why I absorbed so much of her scent. And no, before you ask, I didn't enjoy it at all. But if anyone tried to harass me, I would be much more able to defend myself. I wouldn't need to help her at all, if

Mycroft had agreed to jail her," the vampire pointed out, his mouth thinning in annoyance.

"Why did you need to defend her at all? If it wasn't to get into her pants, or because you were enthralled by her? She manipulated you, used you. She hit you. She fucking injected you with something that put you down for hours! She must have had a rather diverse clientele to have that handy, now that I think about it. So why not let her be killed?" John growled. Oh God, but that sound was sexy.

"Because she wanted to be free. Why do you think she played against Mycroft, against the CIA, against whomever tried to put her on a leash? She's half human, meaning that she probably isn't much older than she appears. I had decades to be free, and accepted my handler – however grudgingly – because, rationally, the benefits overwhelmed the disadvantages. I had the chance to be back to Baker Street, and I couldn't possibly be happy anywhere else. Killing Irene because she wanted freedom would be despicable," the sleuth expounded hotly. John himself did not easily yeld to Mycroft, and however crushed he'd be, Sherlock wouldn't blame him if he left Britain to search for some less regulated land. Wasn't what he just explained obvious?

Of all his tirade, apparently his flatmate had retained only one word. " _Back_ to Baker Street?" the blogger echoed.

"Yes, I lived here before even turning," the sleuth admitted. "Mrs. Hudson's ancestor was a more tolerant housekeeper than I probably deserved."

John grinned. "Oh. So that's why our Mrs. Hudson is so insistent on that point. Does she look like her gran?"

"There's certainly a family resemblance, though obviously they aren't perfect lookalikes. That would be creepy," Sherlock acknowledged.

"Said the vampire," his blogger quipped, with a crooked grin. A shared look, and both were giggling like loonies.

Bless him, John didn't push the matter of people he knew in his past life, and their relations or resemblance to people he frequented now. If he did, Sherlock had no idea how he would fare, caught between omitting Watson's existence altogether – with the risk that the wolf would smell his lie – or mentioning him, and explaining what the man had meant to him, and how very much his flatmate was a little facial hair from being a doppelganger.

Curiously, mentioning Watson and covering up their relationship – demoting him to a dear friend – hadn't entered the detective's mind at all. He had enough decades of that. Now, it was all fine – no way he would be shamed or punished for it – and Watson deserved better from him than to be cheapened this way without imminent danger. Potential awkwardness wasn't an excuse.

Whether he was really uninterested, or afraid of what he could find, John let the matter drop. Both Sherlock's ancient and recent past were ignored. The blogger had finally believed him when he said that he didn't want the siren in his bed. Besides, John was entirely mistaken.

Whatever allure the halfbreed could have exercised on him, it was not by offering her own body, but by asking after puzzles. Interrogate the consulting detective after a case or two, allow him to show off (especially in front of John) and that was everything a female could entice him with. He really wasn't interested in the sexual part, though Irene was certainly used to that nuance being her best weapon and falling into it by default.


	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer: Obviously nothing is mine. Duh. A. N. Thanks to the anonymous guest who liked this! Since I couldn't complete the story in time, I'm publishing further chapters on monthly anniversaries of Sendai's birthday (I do hope this makes sense!) *Sweatdrops*_

A few months later, a new case came to their door – one that the detective appreciated particularly because, unlike their usual dynamic, now it was John's time to shine. And oh, how he did.

Henry Knight was young, and – above all – confused. It was a look from John that made Sherlock accept the case, even if he had to pull at straws to concoct a reason to change his mind suddenly. "What did you see that I don't?" the boffin asked, frowning.

"Your senses might be usually superior, but I am able to smell another wolf when I meet one. And honestly, that's the first time I meet a werewolf that's scared of a fucking dog, no matter how fierce or potentially genetically modified the pup is," the doctor explained, shrugging.

"What you say makes sense. So – is it possible he doesn't know his own nature? I mean, even I got the crash course 'this and that will kill you now, and your diet needs a change'. Didn't your sire, or alpha, or whatever you call the wolf who turned you, have a few words about how to deal with that time of the month at least?" Sherlock asked, puzzled.

Maybe the other vampires had a point in despising 'dogs'. Not John, never John, of course. But who would damn a person to an abnormal life and not have the courtesy to give them at least the basics for survival? Even animals had more sense than that.

"Well, not if the wolf thinks he killed you, but you're too stubborn to die and actually pull through. There are rather more accidental turnings than you'd believe. Still, there should be no way that someone can ignore his own nature – especially not for close to a fucking decade. It might be handy for your kind, but we are not immune to mirrors, cameras and the likes. After a few months of trashed rooms and waking up naked and with one's clothes in tatters, most people film themselves. You know, to ensure they're not being drugged and raped, or something. I'm surprised whoever had custody of Henry as a child did not do it immediately," John explained, looking honestly outraged.

"Maybe they did – and kept it from him. Found another excuse, afraid that knowing the truth the boy would flip out…and you don't want one of yours to go berserk. Even a child. Or maybe…maybe they knew, and found a way to tame him. At least ensure he did not destroy his room. Can it be done? Are you susceptible to thralls? You seemed fairly immune to Irene's, but it doesn't mean that you are insusceptible to any sort of control. Maybe we should try," the sleuth hypothesized, becoming more and more earnest.

"Oh no. You're not experimenting on me," his blogger cut in.

And that was it. They were doing things his friend's way. Well, he deserved it. John was an alpha, indubitably. He could heal, he could nurture, he could indulge you. But if you underestimated him and thought his kindness and odd fashion taste meant he could be bullied, you'd be flat on your back and incapacitated before you could say "Fifth," much less, "Northumberland Fusiliers."

Sherlock had taken cases from 'Mycroft', annoying as the man was; from police; from random clients, including near-insane comic nerds. He could accept a young, troubled pup's case because his partner in crime fighting felt like the boy needed to be educated. He already had, in fact. And he was ready to further defer to the werewolf's expertise in this instance.

For a handful of minutes, the sleuth honestly believed that this would be their best case ever. They were infiltrating a military base – clearly, Baskerville was the source of everything that was wrong in this backwater place (even random humans have figured as much!) – and… Well, nobody needed to know, but Sherlock had quite the penchant for soldiers, since he was alive, even. True, today's uniforms weren't half as dashing as these of his time. But it was in the bearing, in the attitude… something about it (something he wouldn't be able to explain in so many words, and that his Watson had exploited to great reciprocal pleasure) threatened to make his knees go weak.

Seeing John (his John, and still not his John – how frustrating!) _pull rank_ – and like it, his alpha nature enjoying the due compliance to barked orders… Let's just say, if he hadn't been born and raised in a century where his mere inclination was a criminal offence, the consulting detective would have been all too tempted to drag his partner into a dark corner (maybe a tragically cliché supply closet) and beg him to have his wicked way with an eager undead.

All lust immediately evaporated, as soon as they entered the actual lab building. This whole case quickly turned into a nightmare. He should have gone with his gut instinct and refused it. Damn John and his compulsion to help. What they found inside the hospital-white, apparently sterile laboratories (each noticeably soundproofed, no wonder why) was enough to make them both shudder.

"We don't believe in magic," the woman in a lab coat with the smile of a shark (not an actual one; she's fully human) declared. "Until now, we've tried our best to control all these creatures that the middle ages would have deemed supernatural. It's time to take a step further. Reproduce them in laboratory, without any of that unhygienic biting nonsense some species use – or whatever other 'mystical' means are involved. Good old science, and we'll harness immortality and amazing strength and the rest of the so called superpowers. Why, we might even improve them!"

The fact that this required holding a number of preternatural creatures prisoners, and torturing them to see how they worked, how quickly they could jump back from whatever was done to them, did not seem to bother the so-called medical professional. There was no doubt – the clue was in the scent of the fucking place, underneath the insane amounts of chemicals and disinfectant they used. Blood, and illness, and sheer blind panic. Even Sherlock could feel that clearly, and – with his superior sense of smell – John was understandably starting to look ill himself.

He needed to get them out before someone realized what exactly they were and decided to run some tests on them, too. But of course, there was one thing he needed to ask before they could run away. "Have any of the test subjects ever run away?" There would be attempts, of course. Daily, he expected.

"Once or twice…but they've never got too far. As I am sure you are aware, the base is surrounded by a minefield. However durable most of these creatures are, blowing them to smithereens is good enough to get rid of them and ensure they do not go rogue," the Baskerville doctor assured, with a quick, cruel smile.

John suddenly seemed to get his bearing back – he'd been breathing very carefully since they entered the labs – and asked noncommittally, "And have any test subjects reached the stage where they could be safely released into the neighbourhood? To see if they would be able to blend in with the populace?"

"Don't you know?" she bit back, raising a suspicious eyebrow.

Why hadn't Sherlock thought of that? He should have! Instead, he cut in, "We want to hear it from you – know your point of view on the operation. Besides, I would expect progress here to be made hourly, so you should have new data to offer."

"Naturally," the woman agreed, apparently placated. "Then no, I have to say that we've not yet reached quite that advanced a stage yet. We do not want to risk it unless we're entirely sure the situation won't get out of control, you see. Of course, every creature is tagged with a chip that would allow us to terminate it should it go berserk… But we try not to put them in situations that would force us to use that failsafe. It cuts data harvesting short, you see. I know what civilians in the area say, but there's no wandering monster. But there is an economy built around cheap thrills."

"Could some scientist from another team have already taken such a step, though?" the sleuth inquired. Henry had been bitten by a wolf – and the chance of a randomly passing one so close to the base was utterly improbable. So either an escapee had made it through the minefield – not something they would ever admit, not to an 'inspector' who might dole punishments – or he'd been released into the moors.

"Someone would have accomplished that and not bragged about it in the base's cafeteria? You don't know scientists very well at all, do you, sir? When we get to do something first, we want to make sure everyone knows. Innovators get the prizes," the base scientist remarked, smiling condescendingly.

"Or get blamed when they go too far past ethics," John pointed out, smiling his threatening smile.

"Ethics? Here? Are you sure that you've been sent to check on us? That's never been a concern. If we had to worry about that we'd never get anything done," she huffed.

It was time to go – before they were discovered and trapped. They bid a hasty retreat and managed just in time – by Sherlock's estimate, they had about 2.3 minutes before his fake identity was revealed.

"So? What now? Back home?" John queried, anxious to be away from this setting.

"They will know we were fakes, but they won't think we would be so reckless as to stay in the area. Besides, we need to help Henry understand what's happening to him. I think you would be best suited for the work," the sleuth announced, shrugging.

"He already thinks he's a nutcase, if I just go and tell him he's a werewolf he'll think I'm deranged, too!" the doctor protested loudly.

"I'll try to figure out why he's been blind to what should be overwhelming monthly evidence, but only you can teach him how to manage. He's the monster the fucking tourists are after, John!" the detective growled.

"Yeah. Probably. So?" John bit back.

"What happens if they finally discover him? He'll be brought in and never see the light of day again! He's asked for our help. I can't shut this circle of hell down, but I'm certainly doing my utmost to keep my client out of it," Sherlock declared heatedly.

The werewolf couldn't help but wonder if his packmate had spent some time trapped – in some similar, hellish place. Or even if he'd escaped it by a hair's breadth. He wanted to ask, but bit his lips instead. Querying would be to prove oneself too nosy. If the sleuth had something he wanted to share, he would do so without prompting. It was hard enough to get the man to shut up sometimes.

"Well, you solve your bit first. So I can help Henry without having him balk at the very mention of any sort of canid," the blogger replied instead. He giggled quietly, the idea of a wolf suffering from cynophobia still utterly ridiculous. The detective couldn't help it – he joined in his mirth. They needed a spot of brightness after the nightmare they'd seen.

So, the question was, how could Henry have spent decades without realizing his nature? A simple question to the man himself about figures that had been at his side all along showed that his psychiatrist had helped him work through his trauma since he was a terrified kid. True, the village was tiny, and most people here he'd known forever. But if someone was in a prime spot for messing with his head and self-perception, she'd be the one.

"Go question her," Sherlock ordered.

"Why me?" his blogger complained.

"Because you're a fellow medical professional and because she's a woman – they're very much your department," the detective replied, wrinkling his nose. "Besides, I have some more clues to gather." If John smelled his lie, he mercifully didn't call him out on it. His friend would have to take Henry under his wing, that much was obvious. But the consulting detective was terrified of the two of them bonding properly – even in a simple 'pack' way – and John deciding he didn't need a tick in his circle anymore. Not that he could ever admit as much.

John found himself approaching the shrink at the local inn. She was admittedly beautiful, and looking much younger than anyone who'd been in business for a good twenty years after attaining a psychiatry degree should. Maybe it was tons of aesthetic surgery. Still, the blogger had to force himself to greet her. She'd put on way too much perfume – it was supposed to be alluring, but John had to stop himself from sneezing. Didn't her mum ever explain to her that sometimes, less was more?

John valiantly chatted her up anyway, flirting automatically. He hadn't even meant to, but to obtain things from a woman a bit of well-placed flattery was usually the way to go. The fact that he was after information rather than sex wasn't enough to change consolidated patterns.

She was guarded though, unwilling to talk about not just Henry, but apparently anything more than the flimsiest, most cliché of subjects. Until a man in a lab coat – clearly one of Baskerville's so called scientists – entered the room, and came straight towards them. John read panic in her eyes. He wasn't wrong. "I can help," he whispered quickly. The look she levelled at him was clearly unimpressed.

"So, Loulou, have you found a new friend?" the Baskerville bloke asked genially. "I think I saw you around today… Doctor Watson, isn't it? I love your blog. But I'd thought you'd be back in Baker Street by now. Intrusions aren't very appreciated in our base. Not by me, of course. I'd have loved if you and Mr. Holmes would have stayed."

John suppressed a shiver. Staying there? No thanks. He'd rather die. "Sherlock has got everything he needs already," he replied instead, waving a hand. "That's why he's a genius." He dearly hoped that was true, because he was not going back in there. Not for Henry, not for anything. Just…not.

"Oh, he's special, alright," the man agreed genially. "But even in this corner of the woods… or the moors, as it were… we have a few people who would give him a run for his money. Like Lou, here. Right, my dear?"

"You're too kind, Doctor Frankland," the psychiatrist murmured, apparently polite, even submissive, but the blogger could feel her desire to cut the conversation.

"Oh, I am sure. Which is why I was hoping she would like to meet my friend. God knows he's eager for intelligent conversation. What do you say, Doctor Mortimer? Would you like to meet the world's only consulting detective?" John quipped.

"Detective?" she echoed, clearly conflicted, eyes shifting everywhere but on the two men beside her. The werewolf's protective side flared up.

"Sherlock Holmes is a minor celebrity, Lou. Shame on you for not knowing him," the bloke apparently called Frankland remarked, smirking.

"Sherlock and you have an acquaintance in common, so you might have a conversation starter at least. You both are trying to help Henry Knight," John pointed out. It might not be wise to say it in front of this creep, but honestly, he meant it as a warning too. If someone from Baskerville was messing with Henry's head, like they suspected, letting them know Sherlock Holmes was on the case might scare them into stopping. Not that there was a big chance it would work, what with these people having absolutely zero conscience. But to the wolf side of him this looked like a brilliant idea.

"I can't discuss patients. Didn't you say you were a doctor too? I thought you'd realise!" the shrink protested angrily. But there was something else… some emotion John wasn't entirely sure about. Damn her parfum for covering her natural smell!

"You would discuss Henry with another doctor if Henry asked him to consult, wanting a second opinion. That's what he's done. You can trust us," the blogger bit back, trying not to lose his patience and raise his voice, too. Frankland's presence was making the wolf nervous.

"Of course. I can trust you. That's why you started by wooing me," she spit out, walking out on the both of them stiffly. John hoped this was all a show for the Baskerville creep's sake, and that she would be back later. He couldn't help but feel sharply the failure, though. He had no new data on Henry's case. Sherlock would be disappointed.

Or maybe not. Christ, he'd left the sleuth alone because he was supposed to know how to take care of himself! The last thing he expected was to come back to Henry's place – the man had insisted they were his guests – and find their client mid-shift and wildly attacking Sherlock. True, the vampire seemed to be able to handle it; he was literally dancing around the enraged creature, no doubt irking it further.

But five bloody scratches stood out on a pale shoulder, peaking from slightly ripped clothes. Henry going berserk had taken Sherlock by surprise. Understandable. It wasn't even a full moon, and someone who wasn't even aware that he was a werewolf should not have developed yet the ability to shift at will. Besides, why attack someone you asked for help?

John would ask what the fuck the kid was thinking... afterwards. Right now, he risked going berserk himself. Someone had hurt Sherlock, and That. Was. Not. On. Doing his best to keep a hold of his wits, but giving the wolf side enough reign to fix things as it needed to, the blogger shifted immediately, and completely. The silly pup seemed locked in a sort of partial shift that had to be torturous. The change usually didn't take more than a handful of minutes, but Henry actually seemed to keep swinging towards and away from human form and never fully committing to either.

Faced with a heavier, if more compact, older, and bloodthirsty werewolf (there was no mistaking the aura John was emitting), Henry abruptly stopped attacking his intended prey. Instead of properly submitting, though, like a well-bred whelp, he panicked and started running. Well, that would never do. Someone had to teach him manners, and John was clearly the man…errr, wolf for the job.

In two leaps, the blogger was over him, and had Henry pinned to the floor. The gold-and-silver wolf (breathtaking, if you asked Sherlock, but nobody was paying much attention to him at the moment) growled deeply. The traumatized young man whimpered, before losing consciousness, any canine traits and control of his bladder all at the same time.

The vampire wrinkled his nose. "Disgusting."

"That's actually a good surrender signal, but yeah, I wish Henry had picked a different one too," John replied, shifting back to his human form and getting up from the prone body. "The kid's instincts seem to be halfway in the right place…which is why I wonder what triggered him."

The sleuth pouted. "Why am I always to blame?"

"I didn't say that. Interesting how you would assume it, though. We're discussing this after I've patched you up, though. And fed you a bit," John declared, his doctor persona coming to the fore. "Come along. I suppose Henry keeps his first aid kit in the bathroom."

"It's really not necessary. I'll heal in a moment anyway," the detective huffed. "Also, I've not brought along a blood bag. I thought that our client might find it questionable, and honestly, I didn't think that the case would last more than a few hours."

Despite his objections, John had apparently located the first aid kit and was nodding to his friend to sit on the toilet. Bloody tall git. The consulting detective found himself obeying without thinking. "Yeah, but werewolf wound have a bad habit of scarring. There's a chance Henry will think today was an hallucination. Let's not flaunt the claw marks until he's on board with the situation. And about that…oh fuck! That's how we spread. You're not about to become a werewolf too, are you? I mean, how would being a halfbreed even work?" the doctor wondered, while making quick work of the wounds.

Sherlock laughed. "I'm pretty sure one has to be alive for the contagion to spread. Otherwise, your victim would become…werewolf zombies? And I'm technically dead, John, so don't worry. Well, undead, but even so…" He shrugged with the untouched shoulder.

"Oh. Right," his blogger agreed, with a sigh of relief. "And you know, technically you did bring along a blood bag."

"I think I would have noticed," the consulting detective bit back haughtily.

"I do have plenty of blood, if you haven't noticed. And I don't mind sharing… when necessity calls for it," John offered. As if it was no big deal. As if Sherlock wouldn't have an emotional breakdown, because having a taste of John would derail his mind – his heart, really – to other parts of him he'd longed to sample since forever, and that his companion would very much not appreciate.

"I'm not hungry," the sleuth said stubbornly, actually turning away from temptation.

"Suit yourself," John huffed, frustrated. "If you pass out, though, I'll be very cross."

"Shouldn't you be taking care of the other patient, doctor?" the detective suggested testily. Anything to distract the man from his offers.

"I think he'll be ashamed and scared enough when he comes to – better give him a few moments to deal with it on his own. You wouldn't want strangers to see you laying in your own piss too," the blond pointed out, shrugging, "but he'll need the bathroom, so we could retire to the guest room."

"We already saw him laying in his own piss," the vampire remarked, grimacing again.

"We can pretend we didn't, though. We will," his blogger all but ordered.

Sherlock swallowed, mouth suddenly dry as always – in any era – when Captain Watson came to the fore. He nodded. He'd always been powerless to resist that particular tone.

"What happened, anyway? Before he went berserk?" John queried sotto voce.

"I tried to put him under my thrall," the undead admitted, looking anywhere but at his companion.

"You what? But why?" his friend wondered. "Oh. I see. That is a hunting technique for you, isn't it? That's why you were so uninterested when I offered. You already had your sights on a more tasty meal. Then again, veal is better than beef, so I suppose you have a point…"

"What? No!" the sleuth not-quite-yelped, clearly shocked at the insinuation. "He doesn't know he's an effing werewolf, John! This is not a case of someone getting him back into bed and cleaning the mansion before he wakes up. Someone has clearly been messing with his head. For years."

"So you decided to mess with it some more? For your amusement?" the werewolf growled low.

"For some reason, you've been mostly immune to Irene's charms. I needed to know if it was a strength of yours or if a younger, weaker subject might be more easily swayed, especially by someone who was not a half-breed," the vampire explained. His tone seemed patient – the kind of patient you use with slow-witted children – but really, it was mostly haughty. (This and that was a front to cover how weak in the knees John made him when he behaved like that – but it was a very good façade.)

"And you didn't think he would take exception to yet someone else playing with his mind?" the doctor snorted. "He might have been worked on since he was too young to defend himself, but we sense danger, and what amounts to a relative stranger trying to enslave you – whether you snack on him later or not – is going to set off all kinds of alarm bells, genius."

"Well then, solve this case yourself. It's your field of competency, after all. Military, medical, were. Why did you even involve me at all?" the sleuth rumbled, pouting.

"Oh, don't start sulking now! I involved you because you're the actual detective. Why didn't you question the shrink yourself, I still don't get it. The only data I amassed is that she wears way too much perfume and that she's creeped out by one of Baskerville's doctors, but anyone would be," John huffed.

"Oh John! Yes! Perfect!" the detective crowed, suddenly manic. "You might not be the most luminous of people, but as a conductor of light, you're unbeatable!" As soon as the words escaped him, he was tempted to bite his tongue right off. John, not Watson. John. Not-his John. But it wasn't his fault if both men were illuminating.

"Thanks?" his friend asked, sounding rather uncertain. Was he being insulted? Praised? Both? Neither?

"Let's get back to Henry. I'm on the brink of solving this case!" the sleuth announced smugly.

Thankfully, their client had come to already and sorted himself, but he was shaking like a leaf while attempting to make himself a coffee, fine brown powder spattering everywhere.

"Let me take over," John offered, voice soft and kind. He half expected the man to bolt or scream, but he acquiesced, seemingly relieved. Then, he started immediately blabbing, "There was a monster! Again! In my own home! You saw it, didn't you?"

Sherlock had changed out of his torn clothes, and he only offered a smile that would have made Mona Lisa green with envy.

Their client's face fell. "Oh no – it was a hallucination again, was it? There was never anything of substance. I'm just madder than a hatter. I'll… call my doctor. Maybe she knows some place I can be admitted into. I'm starting to think it's the best option."

"Yes, call her," the sleuth rumbled, "but to fire her. We're close to a resolution, Mr. Knight. This might just precipitate the events we need."

"I don't know if I'm up for anything happening, right now," Henry muttered. A look from John, beseeching him to trust the detective, seemed to decide him. He sighed and picked up his phone.

"She's coming," he announced after a short conversation. "Needs to convince me I'm not thinking straight, apparently. Not that she'll have to work very hard."

Ten minutes, and the psychiatrist was there. Henry welcomed her alone, and she heard him out, about his latest hallucination and terror. "There're no such things as monsters, Henry. I told you many times," she remarked, patient and oh-so-reasonable, her voice deep and resonant.

The detective couple interrupted the session, and Sherlock objected, voice cutting, "Allow me to disagree. There certainly are monsters…but you don't have to fear them, Henry. After all, you're one of us."

"One… of… us?" their client echoed, slowly. He was clearly baffled.

"Well, not exactly like me and – I suspect – Miss Mortimer. Quite an adequate choice of a name, by the way, if it is fake like I think. Enthralled again and again and again. Your memory erased monthly. It's no wonder that you're confused. Kudos for even remembering how to tie your shoelaces, after being under control of one of my peers so long," the detective snorted, walking towards the shrink.

She bolted upright, hissing, "What are you babbling? And it's Doctor Mortimer, for you. One patient at a time, please. If you could kindly wait for your turn in the next room. What is the meaning of this, Henry? Why are these people here?"

"We're here because you finally confused him enough that he came to us to make sense of it. Maybe he sensed that John was of his same breed. It wouldn't surprise me! The game is up. Admitting it will make it easier on you," the detective replied sternly.

"What are you talking about? Monsters? Breed?" Henry seemed on the brink of a panic attack, and kept looking from one of the bystanders to the other.

The sleuth threw his arms into the air. "It happened less than an hour ago, you can't have forgotten it already!" he growled, frustrated.

The psychiatrist allowed herself a quick, victorious smile. John was confused. He'd have sworn that she was not their primary enemy – wasn't she scared not so long ago? Annoyed with all the quips back and forth, and her stupid smugness, he stated, "This is what he's talking about," before shifting in front of everyone.


	4. Chapter 4

_Disclaimer: I am still owning nothing. Oops...I was meant to publish this on 19 January and I'm a bit late. I'm hoping time zones work in my favour and it's still 19 where Sendai lives. ^^'''_

At the sudden appearance of the golden and silver wolf in his sitting room, Henry went white as a sheet and grabbed his shrink's arm hard enough to bruise. "Mo-mo-mo-monster!" he whimpered, looking around wildly for a weapon, but oddly not transforming yet. Maybe she had long since ordered him not to change in her presence?

Sherlock huffed, "John will not hurt you, unless you attack first. Don't be ridiculous, Henry. He only pounced on you because you were acting up mindlessly before."

"I didn't do anything! I woke from one of my black outs on the floor…and…" the young man stammered and trailed off, blushing.

"That's the point!" the vampire shouted, "you've been messed up so much that when you do transform, even halfway, you become completely mindless . No control. And it shouldn't be like this. It shouldn't be like this at all. You should be aware of your condition, not terrified of anything that even risks reminding you of it. From what I've heard, she's been sent from Baskerville to keep you in check. I bet she enjoyed the freedom, too. What I can't imagine is why, if you needed a handler, they gave you a vampire to keep you on a leash rather than a werewolf to teach you the basics of life. Hell, given Baskerville people's attitude, I don't get why they didn't just pull you in and use you as a specimen too."

John switched back to his human form. "And since we're sharing things we don't understand, I don't get how the werewolf who bit you escaped and survived the bloody minefield in the first piece. We're resistant, but not that resistant. I can weather a bullet, not being torn apart," he pointed out.

"Well, you've not been through project HOUND," the woman snorted. "The team tinkered a bit. Apparently, the dogs weren't good enough. They're aiming for supersoldiers, or something equally as asinine. So, boosting even further the healing factor – even mixing their genes with different semi-immortal creatures – and trying to breed the alpha character out of them, so they'll properly obey in any situation, was the way to go. And then, they lost their favourite test subject…still way too unruly, so he ran away and – unluckily for Henry – came across him and his dad on the moor. God knows where he's fled to, now."

"And then you were pulled out and started playing with Henry's mind, on doctor's orders. Ensuring no one would believe him about the monster arisen from Baskerville. Ensuring that he wasn't even aware of his own new condition. Erasing memories, enhancing and twisting others so that he'd been terrified by a mere Papillon spaniel. Not someone whom anyone might suspect of being a fearsome canine himself. But why, I wonder? Why not just welcome Henry into Baskerville and use him as a subject? He doesn't look like he has an extended family that would care for him…" Sherlock reasoned loudly, frowning.

"Well, it got me out of there, if on a leash, and I wouldn't be starved, bled out, or otherwise played with anymore. You'd have jumped at the chance too. Enthralled the pup to Timbuktu and back, if they asked. I know you're a sweet kid, Henry, but I'm not even sorry. It really seemed like the best option to keep you unaware of what was going out in this hellhole," the shrink confirmed, shrugging. Their client was gaping, his maw ready to hit the floor, and had apparently lost the use of his voice.

"Besides, you are not much of a detective, if you don't guess the one reason someone who worked inside Baskerville might want to keep a possible test subject out," she sneered.

"I never guess," Sherlock replied, pouting. "I would say he's protecting someone, but I don't have enough data."

"Wait, who's protecting whom? By turning me crazy, on top of that?" Henry protested, turning towards all of them alternately.

"Yes, John, do say – who's the creep who has our esteemed 'psychiatrist' on a leash?" the sleuth rumbled.

"Frank…something. My head says Frankenstein, but I'm pretty sure that's a substitutive name," the older werewolf admitted, laughing weakly and at the same time mentally damning himself for not paying more attention. Not very useful as an assistant detective was he? His flatmate would end up discarding him sooner or later, and being dismissed from yet another pack would kill John. He just knew. No matter the praise he'd received not much earlier. He was a failure, ultimately.

"Not Frankland! He wouldn't! He was a friend of my dad, and he's always been…good to me. He wouldn't want me insane!" their client wailed.

"Frankland has no regards for anyone, much less a random kid. You can't blame him much, though." Dr. Mortimer revealed. If the gig was up, might as well explain. These people wouldn't let her bullshit her way through anyway. "He was one of the founders of Baskerville, you know? After his son got bitten. He needed funds, so he baited the government with supersoldiers and perhaps someday immortality and who knows what else. He soon had a number of eager colleagues, but his intent had always been different. Find a way to turn back into human people who'd transformed into whatever creature. He didn't manage to, of course. There's no way to do that."

Henry needed a lock on his door, because the discussed scientist just came in – lupus in fabula, or, vir in fabula in this specific occasion – muttering, "Tzk, tzk, of course there is. I just haven't found it. But honestly, Lou, I thought I could trust you. You wanted out, I needed someone out. It worked well, didn't it? It doesn't mean I'm not monitoring you all the time. I thought it was odd that you'd go to him after these snoopers came around without a session scheduled."

"You wouldn't…why would you?" Henry stammered, sounding lost, at the same time the 'psychiatrist' swivelled around to stare at her master in horror.

"She gave us all the data," the consulting detective rumbled, "the one motive for him not to bring you in and persuade everyone that you were a crazy little kid and not a newly turned werewolf…it was because he needed his colleagues to believe that escape was impossible from the base, wasn't it? That no werewolf was running in Dewer's Hollow, shifted and chomping on whomever was unlucky enough to come across him. Not that he's there anymore, I believe the doctor would have ensured he was well and truly far from Baskerville soon enough – the dubious honour of being the local haunting presence falls on you now, Henry."

"You don't know anything," Frankland hissed, paling like…well, like a ghost.

"I can deduce that you weren't the only one experimenting on your son. Some of your colleagues became a little too enthusiastic, did they? Weren't kind enough. You didn't mind the others being tortured for your goal – or any goals, truly – but not your own offspring. You helped him escape, but people had to believe he'd fallen in the minefield, or they'd try to track him down. One brand new werewolf being discovered at the same time would have put a chink in your story."

"I was protecting Henry, too!" the man protested loudly, arms weaving wildly.

"You were playing with my sanity!" the youngest werewolf growled, once again starting to shift.

"Henry, Henry, calm down!" the psychiatrist yelled, throwing her full thrall into the words. She blinked, when it had no effect and he continued changing. "It's not working – why isn't it working?" she queried, turning towards the detective pair. It was clear that it had never happened to her before.

"Because his wolf now recognizes you as an enemy," John replied, only just refraining from rolling his eyes. Wasn't it bloody obvious? The blogger shifted, too, and looked up to his partner for a sign – should they stop the young man's somehow righteous fury? If a werewolf killed one of Baskerville's scientist, the following investigation was sure to end with both their client and probably the wolf who bit him in a cage… But if someone had played with his soundness of mind for over a decade, he would have wanted to rip his throat out, too.

The sleuth clicked his fingers, and John bounded towards the younger, angrier wolf, hitting him on his shoulder and throwing him off course enough to make him miss his intended prey. The brown wolf turned on him, hackles raised and fangs bared. The golden one growled, a deep, chastening sound, and bared his own teeth. He couldn't let the pup think he would back down.

Frankland apparently saw this as his cue to go, but before he could hurriedly backpedal, he found his way obstructed by the consulting detective. The vampire had moved so swiftly and soundlessly that it looked as if he'd teleported. "Which side are you on?" a panicked scientist hissed.

"The situation needs a resolution," Sherlock spit back, glaring.

In the meantime, John – maybe not as big, but obviously much better trained than his opponent – had managed to unbalance and overturn him. The brown wolf ended on his belly, and the older one was pushing him down with his forelegs, sharp teeth way too close to an exposed throat.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Henry whimpered, shifting back to human form.

The blogger did too, but kept subduing their client. "Saving your life," he grumbled. "If he'd turned up slaughtered by a wolf, his colleagues wouldn't have rested until you were caught. And you don't want to know what they do in there to people like you and me."

"He ruined my life!" the young man protested in a high-pitched tone.

"And I'm sure he – they – will be amenable to putting things right," the detective interjected, glaring and challenging the other two to object. "If your memory has been modified – and truly, mostly erased – by her, I don't doubt that she can give you back what happened. The wolf side of you must have been conscious of what happened. If she links back the severed connection between both sides of you, I am sure that your life will stop being a nonsensical nightmare."

"He refused my thrall before. What makes you think I could undo whatever damage I've done?" the 'psychiatrist' huffed, clearly tired of taking orders now that her puppeteer was in a tough spot.

"Because he's not so stupid as to try to resist your influence when you'd be actually helping him, for once in your life. And because John and I would be present to your sessions and ensure you do not mess his brain up any further," the sleuth declared matter-of-factly.

"That might be fine, but what about him?" Henry groused again, crossly.

"He will pay, don't worry… by sabotaging the one thing he worked so hard to create. Baskerville will shut down, by his own hand, and its prisoners – rather than fleeing, terrified and lashing out and hurting more people, will be helped to reintegrate in society. You could help us with that, once John has given you a crash course in how to deal with your condition," Sherlock announced.

That apparently satisfied his client – or shocked him, because his body went lax, as well as his jaw, and Henry quite literally gaped.

Frankland had objections, though. Loud ones. "You are barking mad if you think this will happen!"

"I am not a wolf – I thought someone who studied them so long should have recognized that at a glance, at the very least. I despair for your scientific endeavours," the consulting detective sneered down at the other man.

"You're still a fucking monster. And you will have the whole army hunting you down if you kill me. You'll just let me go and forget everything you learned… or I'll let the world know that the beloved, famous consulting detective is a creature out of a nightmare," the scientist growled, taking a step towards the door.

"You think making a fuss would be a good idea? There's a reason I have a handler that answers to my brother's name when my landlady is present. The government might have discovered our existence, but clearly their opinion is that the general populace is not yet ready to face that knowledge. Do call the media: you'll be out of a job and in an asylum, heavily medicated, before your press conference is even over. You know I'm right," the detective hissed coldly. "You can't blackmail me, and you know it. You can't even have me detained in Baskerville, exactly because I know your secret, and no matter how isolated you think you can keep me, I will make sure it's spread if you cage me or John. So let's not pretend you have any power over us."

"I won't destroy my own's life work!" the man protested.

"And what is that work, exactly? Curing lycanthropy? Why would you go to such lengths for that? You know what, lycanthropy is one of the best options if one has to be turned by a supernatural creature. If you spread that a long weekend in the country each month, or wearing fur, makes one a lusus naturae, I think that our aristocrats would be most shocked. We eat human food. We are humans, really… only better," John interjected, with a smug smirk.

"We are humans?" Henry queried, voice trembling.

"Of course you are. Honestly, most of the so-called supernatural creatures were once human…and since you haven't even died yet, there is no reason not to claim that definition for yourself," Sherlock huffed, as always when forced to point out the obvious.

"How can you joke about that?" Frankland bit back, clearly outraged.

"The question here is how could you prompt the torture of dozens of people, including your son? I don't care if you saved him later, or apologised to him, or what. Baskerville needs to shut down yesterday, and I know it won't, I know that even if you do what you're told you'll need sometime before all the projects – the ones you'll have to sabotage – are deemed a failure and a waste of money. And that's what makes me rage," the blogger ranted, with a viciousness that reminded everyone that, while perhaps the most level headed in the room in most situations, he was still a dangerous beast at heart.

"Let's pretend that I see your point. I can't out you, or drag you in – the last thing we need is people who follow your blog – hell, I was one of them! – to wonder why you suddenly disappeared off the face of the earth. But we established that you can't kill me either – for one, it would attract the wrong kind of attention, and besides you need me to actively sabotage Baskerville from the inside if I acquiesced to your plan. If once I go back…I go back, simply. To my studies. What is stopping me? What can you offer to counteract that?" the scientist asked, now cold and reasonable and hateful.

"What can I offer? I can offer you the lack of torture, doctor. Because I will find a way to check on the progress here – if the projects are stuttering or not. And if they're not…we intruded once, we can do it twice. I'll figure out a way. I'm smart. And once we're back in, it'll be just a quick thing…and you'll find yourself turned into a test subject before you even know. Then, you'll be left to the tender care of your ex-colleagues. Why, I would even let you pick your species. Would you rather be bitten by me or John? I'd suggest John, maybe you could start a pack with your son…If you ever manage to escape, which I wouldn't be so sure about…but it's up to individual taste, in the end," Sherlock purred – and that made his threat all the more terrifying.

"You wouldn't," Frankland bit back, but his voice was trembling. Hesitant. And it had good reason to be.

"Wouldn't I? Am I not a creature out of a nightmare, as you said? A monster? What's stopping me, but your absolute compliance? I'm not even wasting effort into enthralling you. You deal with vampires on a regular basis. Either you developed a way to resist, or you're insane. No, you'll obey me out of good old fear, Doctor Frankland. There's no antidote against it but bravery – and you don't strike me as one having great reserves of that," the consulting detective objected, purposefully flashing a pointy canine in an eerie grin.

"I'll… consider it. I'm getting back to base," the man said, and his sweat reeked of fear.

"Henry will expect reports on your progress," John declared before he could slink past his friend, "In person – papers can be forged too easily."

The only acknowledgement to that was a quick nod before the man literally ran out.

"And they call us monsters," the sleuth sniffed haughtily. "You haven't been inside the base, Henry. You don't know what happens there."

"Still trying to come to terms with the whole 'being a supernatural creature' here. I thought I had it bad when I believed I'd been bit by a stray dog," the young werewolf admitted, with a weak chuckle.

"As I said, it's not so bad," John declared, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Now, let'd get around these brain-restoring sessions and afterwards, I have a few pamphlets the government actually sent me after I was bitten in Afghanistan. It's not too complicated, really."

The detective didn't say a word, but he quietly burned with jealousy. Not a new feeling at all, with his Watson – for a while – or for John, but having to feel it around a man was novel, and in a way more bitter and terrifying. He couldn't offer them what a woman would. But he could compete with a man – and what happened if he lost, again?

He needed to stop lying to himself about misplaced feelings and accept that he loved the man – and it might still be too late. Maybe another werewolf was what John wanted for a mate. They would spend full moons running around the moor and fucking each other silly. His stomach almost rebelled at the idea, but the vampire made a point not to give any hint of that. If he was too late – if he'd lost John – well, he couldn't change the man's feelings. He'd have to be content with what he could have. What the consulting detective had already, countless times, talked himself into accepting as his lot this time.


	5. Chapter 5

_Disclaimer: I obviously do not own anything you recognise._

 _A.N. I can't believe that I'm not updating this since November! I apologise utterly, 1Sendai, consider me grovelling at your feet. My only justification is that December is mad and I usually update only the daily challenge anyway, while for January...I guess it was so close to the trauma. I might have spent days in a daze, wondering when I'd slipped into a dystopia. ^^'''_

At this point, Sherlock had downright forgotten Moriarty. Yes, the man had prompted them to air out the reciprocal natures. And yes, the name was… odd. But he'd disappeared since then, and so many more pressing questions had arisen.

Pack dynamics. Worry about Henry Knight – they'd never discussed it in so many words, but was he part of their number, now? If so, would he want to live in Baker Street? The sleuth supposed that the C flat was to let, still… Or would he insist that they move to his huge mansion? Would John want to?

The detective didn't find the voice to say any of that, or the even deeper fears that haunted him. Would John cut him off now that he had the start of a proper werewolf pack to his name? Would Henry talk him into it?

Ignoring the problem hadn't made it go away, but it hadn't triggered it either. Nobody talked to anybody about moving. John still left for his moons, and the consulting detective was certain he spent them with their young client, but nothing 'untoward' seemed to be happening, from what signs he could perceive. Sherlock was terribly tempted to follow him now, but he'd never done so before, allowing his flatmate privacy at least in that, and to push for it at this point would raise questions he wasn't ready to answer. Might actually never be ready to.

Until Jim Moriarty had come back, and in the most spectacular fashion one could imagine. For someone who had been called the Napoleon of crime to make sure to be caught wearing the effing crown jewels made perfect sense – in a twisted, challenging way.

The consulting detective now regretted dearly not investigating more deeply that line of thought he'd had when first meeting John, about the possibility of reincarnation, and what it would entail. True, his partner seemed to hint at death erasing memories… but what if it didn't?

What if he'd taken too long to find him, if his change had been radical enough to smother the old love, and still John had stood by him. Willing to give friendship a chance, knowing perfectly well what a lonely creature the sleuth could be?

He scolded himself for getting sidetracked in his meditations. None of this would help him fight Moriarty again, anyway. The man clearly had a grudge. Not that it was unreasonable. If, as it appeared, the consulting criminal had somehow kept all his memories from his past life, the detective _had_ killed him and destroyed his organization. In his place, Sherlock would honestly be bitter too.

No, now the question was – when you had a genius with a vengeance, and one that had already secured silver bullets the first time around, how did you stop him – or at least, persuade him not to cause any 'collateral damage' in the process? Since the last life in which they met, Moriarty had clearly loosened some screws in that great brain of his.

'Mycroft' was deeply annoyed by the whole carousel the consulting criminal started. The man flourished in the shadows, and he firmly believed that it was the perfect place for the creatures he supervised too. After all, lore agreed with him. The British Government had been scornful enough about John's blog, but honestly, Sherlock couldn't blame him much for that. His friend did not have the greatest literary talent – which was why his blog's popularity surprised both vampire and supervisor.

Still, internet fame was a fleeting thing. Being the key witness in the trial of the century, specifically requested from the criminal mastermind who pulled off the three most shocking crimes ever committed in a matter of hours, was entirely another. It wouldn't be an article or two over a weird meme or a brilliantly solved case or two. (Besides, the Reichenbach Fall painting case had to have Moriarty behind it, too).

People would start scrutinizing the sleuth and his partner way too closely for the comfort of anyone involved – either the flatmates or the 'minor official' who was charged to supervise preternatural activity in London (and possibly way farther). The man invaded Baker Street once, while John was out, and downright lectured the century-old nosferatu.

"It's not my fault," the sleuth wanted to protest, frustrated – only clearly it was. Sherlock Holmes was back in London and Moriarty went wild. Well, at least this time he hadn't burned down Baker Street. The bomb on the other side of the street during the other case was a definite improvement, and this time the criminal seemed determined to play a different game, much less physical.

The sleuth had to lie in court, of course, but he was pretty sure that being a nosferatu, God had already condemned him. Or, well, not exactly lie – he had known this version of Moriarty for a handful of minutes. But he knew what the man was capable of not because of his powers of deduction, but because of the history between them.

The consulting criminal had to be tied to his previous existence. Homonyms creating twin criminal empires were a coincidence too odd, even in a universe where – unlike what he'd believed in his human existence – preternatural creatures ran around freely.

If he was snappy, well, if people could have known the truth, they would have forgiven him. Doubting whether you're qualified to speak of the dangerousness of your century-long archenemy, no matter how fleeting your recent reacquaintance was, would put anyone in a mood.

He knew it couldn't be so easy – he wouldn't insult Moriarty that way – but he still, for a moment, allowed himself to hope (pray, really) that a jury could lock him up. True, it was not exactly a jury of his peers – then again, there was probably nobody in this day that was the former professor's peer. He might partly qualify, he certainly did once, but Moriarty had changed so much that the vampire doubted this could still prove true. He doubted that the consulting criminal would try such a tack for his defense, though.

Stomach knotted in anxiety, the detective waited. Getting expelled from the court was actually a relief. He was tense enough to snap – his house soothed him. The only thing that could have made it better was John's presence, but ignoring what was happening, relying on media accounts of what happened, would be exceedingly reckless.

Moriarty was released – obviously he was. And now Sherlock had to face him. He'd done so in the past. He would undoubtedly come back to threaten and gloat, and perhaps make him an offer. Join his criminal network? Beg and grovel? What did Jim (Jim, because James was the Professor, cold and courteous rather than shouty and deranged) want? Would the man even agree to leaving everyone else out of their deadly dance?

The bastard wouldn't say. Oh, he was almost like old times, making polite conversation about classical music…and certainly, the 'owing a fall' was something the consulting detective understood all too well, reference loud and clear. But the important details – how many people were in the crosshairs, and how the sleuth could ensure that any blow befell only himself – were sidestepped, with a vague smirk.

How was Sherlock supposed to stop him? He could have tried enthralling him, sure. Or just pinning him to the wall and draining him of every last drop. He couldn't hurt anyone if he was dead, could he? Still, he hadn't done either of these things. Killing Moriarty the first time had only enticed him into revenge, in this odd game of cat and mouse (but who was what?) that had already claimed lives. No, he needed more information if he was to have any hope of success.

But first… He called. Texting couldn't possibly contain his rage. "You told me you had him contained!" he hissed, when the man picked up.

"I had him. But it proved to be unproductive," the British Government replied.

"What does this even mean?" the sleuth demanded angrily. Was this his punishment? Frankland had started sabotaging Baskerville, and by now it had become apparent, so his handler decided that the vampire should face his old nemesis, was it? It would keep him from ruining government property. Keep him busy. Had the man even considered how dangerous Moriarty was? How many people he was potentially putting in the crosshairs?

"It means that he would not yield. More so, he might be schizoid, we couldn't determine it. After a while, Moriarty kept insisting he didn't know anything about any criminal organization. He passed the lie detector. He cried and whimpered. He swore that someone was framing him. He even denied his identity, kept insisting we had it all wrong, and if we'd just check…" Mycroft related coldly.

"And did you?" the detective asked. This made no sense. Moriarty was many things, but he was no coward – the professor had faced him at the Falls, despite his being younger and more trained than the academic.

"We did. And if it was a fake identity, he'd gone through a tremendous amount of trouble to prepare himself a cover story. There are people who remember knowing Richard Brook since elementary school. But…" the government official trailed off.

"Yes?" the sleuth prompted, irritated. The more he learned, the more confusing things were. Schizoid disease? Richard Brook? If Richard Brook was a true person, what about Moriarty? Why would he pick an alias like that? Why had no one noticed young Dick Brook murdering Carl Powers?

"The boy seems to have always been a bit of a freak. Ever since he got bullied into a dare for Halloween. True, it might just be that 'that horrible night' – nobody would go into details, not even to me – actually triggered his schizophrenia, or multiple personality disorder, or what you have. It would be the most immediate hypothesis, the 'sensible' option. But I've not reached my position by accepting the simplest explanation," 'Mycroft' declared. Even over the line, his arrogance was unbearable.

"No, you got it by being heartless. Sometimes I wonder if you're some sort of creature, too. Just one way more skilled at passing for human, and of course, entirely without mercy," the vampire retorted.

The British Government actually scoffed. "This is of no importance right now. What matters is that this – unless Richard is indeed the most accidentally insightful schizoid ever, given how he teased you – is clearly a case of possession."

"Demoniac?" Sherlock breathed, suppressing a shiver. Sure, he knew he was bound for Hell since the day he'd accepted his sire's proposal. He thought he would be allowed to go on his own terms, though. When he was tired of life – or when someone managed to best him. Someone who discovered his nature accidentally, and thought it their sacred duty to rid the world of the scourge they thought the vampire was. Not that actual demons would get bored of waiting and decide that tormenting him in his undead state was a fun pastime, until they could go full time on him.

"Possibly," Mycroft acknowledged coldly. "Or ghostly. After all, the name he acquired is well known to you."

"I thought ghosts were bound to their place of death," the sleuth remarked, frowning. He'd skipped Switzerland entirely, even in the decades he'd wandered, because _if_ the late Professor Moriarty had actually become a revenant, he had no desire to meet him once again.

"For a vampire, you are not very knowledgeable about different non-human…or non human anymore, at least… creatures, are you?" the other man teased.

"Since my aim was to mingle with regular people, not to found a club where I could have tea with as many preternatural creatures as I could, learning about them seemed mostly a waste of brain space," Sherlock groused. He had his doubts about what the Diogenes club had been turned into, frankly. With so many species able to exert a thrall with their voice, the institution seemed the perfect place to 'invite' to join creatures who, somehow, had earned the access to politics despite being…different.

"For your education, then. Ghosts can indeed move, as long as there is a reason for them to. It's just that most of them are so obsessed with what they've suffered that they are not interested in what happens in the world. From my researches, they do need some sort of anchor to the physical world," 'Mycroft' expounded, unbearably condescending.

"Like what?" Sherlock asked, ignoring the tone in favour of solving the problem.

"Like his body," the man replied, letting it sink in. The professor's body had been swept away from the falls, and among so many boosts to his natural abilities, the sleuth's new condition entailed a weakness against large bodies of water. He was not going be able to find and destroy it on his own. He needed help. "But if you're lucky, it'll be just some memento. I have not yet discovered where it might be held, though, or if this is indeed the case," the government official cheered him.

"You have not yet discovered it? And what do you suggest I do in the meantime? I am assuming that, nevermind helping me, you don't wish for the permanence of a consulting criminal in this plane of reality, so you'd be working to solve the issue anyway," the detective growled.

"Of course we want to stop Professor Moriarty. People like me are in place exactly to control preternatural creatures who go rogue and endanger our citizens. That is his very job's description. As for what to do, though… the only suggestion I can offer is to play with him," 'Mycroft' replied nonchalantly. As if it was a perfectly reasonable idea.

"Play?" the consulting detective echoed, shocked.

"Play, dance, I don't care how you word it. Just…entertain him. Keep him busy, while I'm doing the actual heavy lifting of researching the data we need to get rid of him permanently. As you've seen, ignoring him will only make the ghost restless – and more and more people might be threatened because he needs to make an impression. I'm sure you agree that this can't be allowed to go on," the representative of the British government declared.

Sherlock hated having the man be right, but it was true. Moriarty had already proven that he had no qualms about targeting John in the previous round. He couldn't allow this to happen again. He had taken every measure necessary to protect Watson in his human existence, and he wouldn't fail John now.

He had to play into the man's – ghost – whatever's hands. It made him angry – no, furious. It made him scared. Because going along with what the consulting criminal planned could only end in disaster. But he'd accepted that, long ago, hadn't he? Mutually assured destruction. It had become a concept later on, but it was what the consulting detective and the consulting criminal had agreed on, back in 1891. Only, instead of backing out from the reciprocal spheres of influence, like nations would do, they'd pursued it to the bitter end. Then again, the acronym of that doctrine was MAD, and perhaps they both had a strain of that in them…

Sherlock thought that he'd found a loophole out of it. But Moriarty was back, extracting his due. As long as nobody else was hurt – as long as John was safe -…he'd made peace with that prospect long ago. He should be able to embrace it now. He hadn't become a coward, had he?

No, he had not. But he'd hurt Watson so much, back then. He didn't want to hurt John. He thought this second chance was an occasion to make amends. Clearly, he'd presumed too much. He didn't find more (more happiness – more freedom) this time around. If anything, he had to keep a tighter leash on the feelings he'd developed. Then again, he supposed that he was less than a man, this time around, so it was fitting. In a twisted, cruel way.

When the events unfolded, swiftly and tragically true (Richard Brook existed, and he was an actor, and the consulting criminal's resurgence was – in some way – his fault), Sherlock tried swimming with the current. Following memories and regrets and hoping he would somehow, miraculously survive it again. And if he didn't, please let him be the only victim, this time around.

John was called away – like Watson before him – and once again, Sherlock let him go. Anything to remove him from the scene of their final – hopefully, because he was starting to be really annoyed by his eternal nemesis – confrontation.

Moriarty welcomed him with his stupid ringtone. 'Staying alive'. "That's the quandary, isn't it, Sherlock? We both solved it, in our own way," he remarked, smirking.

"Technically, that song doesn't apply to either of us. But I suppose 'Staying around' would not make as cool a song. That's the kind of bluster you worry about now, isn't it?" The consulting detective retorted viciously.

"You wound me," Jim quipped, theatrically bringing his hands to his chest, "It's not all empty flourish, you know. I just like playing with the details…the result feels like the golden ratio to me. Do you have any idea how long it was before I found an actual Richard Brook?"

"Don't tell me you postponed your revenge to be able to make a pun on Reichenbach," the sleuth snorted, glaring at him.

"I postponed because I needed to perfect my abilities. It wouldn't do to face you when I was at any less than my peak. I owed you as much respect, at least," Moriarty replied, untouched by the other man's venom.

"It seems that you owe me a great many things," Sherlock remarked, shrugging.

"Certainly," the man nodded, "but you owe me too, wouldn't you agree? We were supposed to destroy each other." His voice was soft, like a lover's.

"Forgive me if I say so, but you seem woefully unprepared after all your training, if you do indeed mean to drag me to hell, to share your circle. I do not see any stake, not other weapon," the detective quipped.

Jim rose from the ledge where he'd been sitting and came towards him, a lopsided smile on his lips, "Are you always so impatient to finish, dear? You must have been a truly awful paramour." When that garnered no reaction, the consulting detective as still and silent as a statue, he added, "Just because you do not see a weapon, it does not mean it's not there. I don't need to point anything at you to make you dance to my tune…as it has been already demonstrated. There are weapons, rifles, and there are blessed bullets…and they will not miss, unless you do exactly what I ask."

"John," the vampire breathed, terrified. He thought that sending the wolf away was done in order to remove him from their fight. Why keep him in the crosshairs all the same?

"Not just him, dear. Everyone. I did say rifle _s_ , after all. Do keep up," Moriarty pointed out, clicking his tongue.

"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock realised. She treated him like a son, undeserving as he was, and the blood ties made her doubly dear to him. Deciding she'd make a fine pressure point required no huge leap.

"Everyone, I said," Jim insisted, circling him like a shark his prey.

"Lestrade," he muttered. The other man somehow bonded to their past – and so, obviously, the one police officer he would get attached to the most.

"Now, if you want to keep these people alive, you'll dance to my tune. Sherlock," Jim declared.

"What do you want? Fouetté? Chaînés? À terre?" the sleuth inquired sarcastically, between gritted teeth.

The consulting criminal grinned ecstatically. "All very tempting options, my dear…You do know how to flatter a man. But no, this is not what I had in mind for our private pas de deux."

"Then what?" he repeated, trembling with contained rage. Killing him now would have been possible – even easy. But with the driving force behind the spider's web being a ghost, murdering the host wouldn't have accomplished anything but force him to pick a new body. One they didn't know.

"Tombé, for a start. If you don't want my men to shoot – and I assure you, they won't miss – you take a little step and throw yourself off the ledge. The very public suicide of the unmasked fraud. It has a nice ring to it, doesn't it? I'm sure that the papers will have a field day. Your reputation will crash into the ground," Jim expounded, hands fluttering excitedly.

"My suicide?" the detective echoed, peering down. Did the ghost know that vampires would not die after such a fall? Not that warning him was in his best interest, if Moriarty was truly that ignorant. Would so little persuade him to retire in whichever corner of hell he was awaited?

"According to the public, certainly. You don't want me to out your true nature to all the filthier gossip magazines, do you? I think your overseer would be frustrated with the both of us if we opened that particular can of worms, so don't go and change into a bat in mid-air or anything that theatrical. Of course I realise you won't die. You will hurt, though, and that's a good first step for our dance," the consulting criminal described, smirking.

Pain. Pain he could take. He could take worse than what would ensue from this. And Moriarty should know this. A few broken bones, even a fractured skull, slowly mending, would not equate being thrown into a roaring, watery grave. Well, he did say 'a first step'. "Then what?" he queried sternly.

"Then, my dear, we'll have our own pas de deux – at least until I get bored. I am an expert of taking over, now – not just organizations, but souls. I will hide, and you will seek. I admit that being pursued by you is a thrilling feeling. Again and again and again, I expect you to find me. Of course, there's a catch. I expect you to do it alone, my dear. If your pet tries to leave the UK, my snipers will take them out. All of them. If you try to get in contact with him, in any way, they'll shoot. And believe me, I have ways of knowing if you do," Jim announced, with a feral light in his dark eyes.

Oh. An eternal hunt. One he couldn't win, because his prey could simply skip body. Alone. Greg and Mrs. Hudson thinking he was a fraud, who'd rather off himself than face what awaited him. And John… John would know he wasn't dead. He might not be an expert in vampire history, but he'd know that would not be enough to keep one down. What would he think? He could only deduce that he'd been wilfully forsaken. In the best scenario, the werewolf would hate him for the perceived breaking of pack bond. In the worst, he'd try to hunt him down and trigger the multiple deaths Sherlock was desperate to avoid.

And yet, what could the sleuth do? Nothing. He'd been instructed to play along. When your enemy was already dead, how did you stop him? For him, a physical form was truly only transport, something he could switch as many times as he found convenient. "I suppose the terms of our contract are to remain a secret, too," the consulting detective pondered aloud. After all, Moriarty seemed to be changed enough that assuming he could follow all his thoughts was not feasible anymore.

The criminal clicked is tongue in scorn. "Of course it is, don't play dumb now, it doesn't become you, deary. Oh, and if I wasn't clear enough, I want you to stop any contact with him from the moment you'll step out this roof. Play corpse convincingly. Not that it should be very difficult for you." The man laughed. "Now, I'd get on with it before your pet realises your landlady is still fine and runs back. I'll give you that; you've trained him well. Not about to turn his back on you… _him_."

The 'you will' went unsaid. Sherlock didn't want to – not at all. But if he was to break contact, he needed to act now. It was one thing for John to come back (Jim was right – he would, soon) and find just a blood splatter on the pavement and no vampire. If he fell under John's gaze, he wanted to believe nothing on Earth would keep the werewolf away from him. And that might be seen as 'contact', and spell doom for everyone. He needed to act _now_ – no time for famous last words. Still, his very soul recoiled from that.

"Need to be taught now? Dying's easy, really. Pretending, even more so," Moriarty purred, getting in his space and looking as if he was trying to peer straight into the sleuth's heart. "See you soon, Sherlock Holmes," the criminal concluded, blowing him a kiss before suddenly producing a gun and blowing his own brain apart. Or Richard Brook's brain.

The consulting detective had no idea how much of Brook was still in there, and how aware he was of the proceedings. He just hoped to God the actor realised Moriarty was the one pulling the strings – because possibly having _two_ vengeful ghosts on his back would be more than he could handle.

As much as he hated to admit it, the consulting criminal was right: time was running out. Oh well. It was only a step – the first step. Even while falling, he promised himself he'd find a way to destroy Moriarty once and for all and get back home. Some day.

 _P.S. The tiny bits of French come from the Wikipedia glossary of ballet. In case you were wondering…_

 _ **Fouetté**_ _refers to a move where a quick pivot on the supporting leg changes the orientation of the body and the working leg, but literally, in French, means whipped._

 _ **Chaînés**_ _is a common abbreviation for_ tours chaînés déboulés _, a series of quick, 360 degree turns that alternate the feet while traveling along a straight line or in a circular path, but literally means chained._

 _ **À terre**_ _means touching the floor._

 _ **Pas de deux**_ _('Step of two.') is a dance duet, usually performed by a female and a male dancer._

 _ **Tombé**_ _means fallen, and indeed it refers to the action of falling, typically used as a lead-in movement to a traveling step._


	6. Chapter 6

_Disclaimer: I don't own a single thing._

Mrs. Hudson was safe. Well, safe-ish. Certainly not dying. There was a stranger – a man repairing something or other – whose smell John didn't like at all, but she was certainly not bleeding out to death.

He checked the toolbox, because something was wrong, his hackles still raised, and it wasn't only from the previous panic, seeing her whole should have appeased that. John had learned to trust his instincts when he was still just a very human army surgeon. After being turned, he did so much more. Not because he was half-animal, incapable of control. Because he had much sharper senses, taking in more data than he could hope to before. If his higher brain couldn't be bothered to sift through them all and point them out to him in a logical framework like Sherlock's did, and decided to let his subconscious do the work and just warn him with a 'Wrong' feeling, John wasn't going to bother complaining about it.

He was right, anyway. Always, or almost always. Finding the weapon only confirmed his suspects. One of Moriarty's henchmen, then. Out for Mrs. Hudson's blood, so that the call ended up being a warning? Had the consulting criminal planned for the message to reach them later and someone eager to get it done had anticipated the planned hour? If so, he needed to be very grateful to the ridiculous bumbler of a goon, whose body parts Greg would probably find shortly spread all over London.

The sniper-cum-handyman did not expect to find his own weapon levelled at him, but he did have enough common sense not to try to fight for its possession. It would take John a fraction of a second to shot him dead, and he was only refraining for respect of Mrs. Hudson's tiles.

The landlady let out a little squeal at the sight, more out of surprise than fear.

"I assume you've been sent by Moriarty," the blogger declared coldly, his hands never wavering. "Who for?" There was still a chance that the man was supposed to ambush them in case they went back home.

"The old lady – sorry mam, nothing personal, you understand, but a job is a job, and M-boss pays well. Oh, and don't worry, I haven't half-assed the repairs. Learned those things from my Da, and he would not stand for any son of his messing up such simple work," the intended killer replied, shrugging.

John snorted loudly. "Good to know that your father instilled some values into you. And did Moriarty give any extra orders, details, explanation about why Mrs. Hudson needed to be taken out...anything at all?"

"Not really. On a strictly need-to-know basis, M-boss, he is. He certainly won't chatter about his plans. Only thing I know is that I needed to go through with it unless I received the message, 'It is done'," the sniper revealed, dragging his feet.

" _What_ is done?" John growled, threatening to cover a sudden shiver of fear.

The man shrugged, ignorant and uninterested.

"Mrs. Hudson, if you could phone Lestrade..."the blogger demanded, the urge to run back _now_ and check that nothing happened almost strong enough to make him drop the weapon.

"I'll do you one better, dear," she said, walking to their flat and coming back with a pair of professional handcuffs – certainly filched by Sherlock from the very same detective inspector – and tied the sniper-to-be up. She'd just ended, when their prisoner's phone rang with an incoming message. The sweet old lady startled at the unexpected sound, but then steeled herself and checked the text. It was the one the sniper had been expecting – the one calling off the whole operation. She didn't read it aloud -just remarked, "I have Lestrade on speed dial, I'm sure he'll be here soon, John...but I really think you should go now. Just hand this over to me."

"Sure you can handle it, Mrs. Hudson?" John queried. He needed to get away, he needed to find his packmate, but it was a heavy weapon, and he would never forgive himself if anything happened to her after all.

"Do _not_ underestimate me, John Watson," she snapped angrily. She'd survived organised crime – she might have been 'just typing', but Frank – for all his faults – had ensured that she was able to defend herself. In case someone came around when he was, you know, out on business.

With that assurance, the werewolf gave her the weapon and fled away as if all the demons of hell were on his tracks. Something happened. Something that made Moriarty decide hurting Mrs. Hudson was a needless endeavour. There was only one thing John could imagine that would have that effect, but he prayed he was wrong all the way back to Bart's, earnestly, heart thrumming wildly in his chest.

He was right...and wrong...and right. It was so confusing. The bloodstain on the pavement, and the throng of shocked, chattering people, told of death. Very public, very impressive death. But Moriarty knew about Sherlock's nature, and that would not end a vampire, would it? Not unless he 'accidentally' fell on some sort of stake erected in the meantime, which would have stuck like a sore thumb near the hospital (and require, on the sleuth's part, a considerably rotten luck to centre).

Would Moriarty be content with his enemy hurt and helpless? Maybe. If so, though, what John needed now was to reach his friend. Guard him. If the bloody consulting criminal thought he would have free reign on his rival, he was going to have another thing coming.

The last thing John would have ever expected was to find his path blocked...not by one of the criminal mastermind's underlings, which he would have taken great pleasure in tearing apart, but by sweet Molly Hooper.

"Where are you going, John?" she inquired, eyes shining with fresh tears, but body firmly obstructing the whole door.

"To Sherlock, of course. I need to watch over him," he snapped, annoyed.

"Oh, John. He's dead. He...flung himself from the roof. No man could survive that," she revealed haltingly, biting her lips.

"Yes, of course, but he's not human, Molly. I mean, you must have suspected. I know he experimented a lot, and was generally taking advantage of your soft spot for him to obtain all sorts of things. But what did you think he did with all that blood, Molls? What experiment could need so much? It's not like he had a transfusion machine at home, even if he suffered from an illness that required so much. He's going to need a transfusion pronto, though. Not sure if he can drink his fill now. And I know you have plenty of blood there, that's the point, actually. But I promise mine is better," John reasoned quickly. Of course his was better. He had no idea if the enhanced healing factor he benefitted from, since being turned, could actually be absorbed and work inside Sherlock's body. It was a chance they couldn't pass, though.

She shook her head in dismay. "John, what...what are you saying? Have you gone mad?"

John repressed the urge to shake her and remove her forcibly from the door. Molly was a kind, sweet girl, but she was bright. Could she really have never inquired? Never even suspected, with the quantities she provided? This was not the moment for starting a metaphysical debate, though. He needed to get to Sherlock now, before someone else did.

So he merely shook his head, and laughed self-deprecatingly. "Maybe, Molls. I'm sorry, I'm a bit shaken. Just...let me come through. I need to see him – say goodbye to him, You won't deny me this, surely?" he beseeched, at the same time taking one more step towards her. Not quite crowding, but it should be enough to make a girl like her instinctively give way.

Instead, she stood her ground. "I'm afraid I can't, John. Not while you are so upset. I...I honestly don't know what you might do, at the moment," she said, softly but firmly.

The werewolf wanted to growl. Possibly even hurt her, not much, but the way he would with a disobedient, obnoxious pup. Being a friend – even being an unofficial packmate – did not mean that one had a right to be in the way in moments of danger without consequences. Instead, the doctor forced himself to stop relying on his limbic system and start using his frontal lobe.

Why was Molly so stubborn in denying him access? It was out of character for her. Add to that her being oblivious to things she should have been wondered about...it all spoke of mind control. She wasn't afraid. He would have smelled it on her. Not threatened into doing this, then. But who had the powers and the will to play with her brain? Well, what about someone who was all too used to doing it without compunction?

John huffed in annoyance. "You might be right, Molly. I'm too upset, right now. I'll just go home and have a cup of tea," he replied, the last sentence way too loud to be talking with someone inches from him. Sherlock better have heard him – he was going home and putting on the kettle, and he expected to either see his flatmate back home or receive a text in case he needed to do anything else.

He marched back home, his aggravation bleeding out of him with each uncharacteristically heavy step. Honestly, what was his friend playing at right now? He didn't know much about vampires, but he would have sworn that the plunge he took would have had some effect, if only temporary.

The kind of effect that made the presence of a friend and a doctor and a warrior at one's side very much desirable. More so with Moriarty on the loose. Being turned away like that smarted badly, and it wasn't just his pride that took the blow.

He got home, upset enough that it radiated off him. Lestrade had clearly come and gone already, from the scents of it, and Mrs. Hudson wisely thought best not to leave her flat to greet him. The woman had a great sensibility for atmospheres. The werewolf did prepare a cup of tea, banging the kettle about a bit more forcefully than strictly necessary. He couldn't make himself drink it, though, the smell somehow too strong instead of comforting (he's not steeped it too much; he simply felt off). And then another. And another. None were drunk. Sherlock did not come home, not even sneaking in by the back or the windows. The man was a vampire, he was supposed to be great at sneaking around! He didn't text. What the everloving fuck was happening?

In the evening, the sleuth was still not home. 'Mycroft' thought best to come visit, though. As if the day hadn't been shitty enough. The government official invited Mrs. Hudson up for a chat. There was no reason to repeat things twice. While John glared darkly at him, the ginger spun his tale of his little brother's tragic passing.

Mrs. Hudson whimpered, bringing a hand to her mouth, and turned to John, half reproaching and half heartbroken. "Why didn't you _tell_ me, John? I had no idea you were...upset because you skipped denial and plunged right into anger," she murmured, looking hesitantly at him, as if wondering if a hug would be welcome.

That got a bitter laugh out of the blogger. "Oh, believe me, Mrs. Hudson, I've not skipped denial at all. My feelings are just a bit...jumbled, right now." He dragged the government official inside the kitchen, slamming the door behind them. "Okay. You played your part. Now tell me what the fuck Sherlock is really up to, and where I have to join him," he hissed venomously.

"All I know is that Sherlock Holmes is going to leave Great Britain. As much as I would like to, I cannot hold him prisoner – you have no idea how hard it is to keep anyone with his intelligence _and_ power to enthrall other people anywhere they don't want to. So, since he opted for the very public 'suicide', the only thing I can do is conform to his choice. I will play the heartbroken brother and ask her to keep the flat as a shrine, as long as I pay the rent," Mycroft replied, unblinking in the face of a miffed werewolf. "As for you, I am sure that if he wanted your companionship, he would find a way to send word."

"Are you saying he finds me a burden for whatever romp he's planned?" John growled, daring the man to agree with that. Mycroft smelled of lies. There was more and for God's sake, he would get to the bottom of that.

"I'm saying he might think that your proper place is defending the den. From my sources, Mrs. Hudson was threatened today. Maybe he doesn't need you at heel, not for now. He might have other priorities," the politician remarked, shrugging.

"He should have bothered to tell me so himself. Don't I deserve the courtesy, even as a simple flatmate?" John growled lowly. Sending the bastard to make his excuses would have been insulting even if Sherlock and he were actually kin. Like this... what delusion was the vampire working under, if he thought that John would just stay put and do whatever Mycroft, or however he was actually called, told him?

"Or maybe he thought you could deduce as much by yourself. Of course, overestimating the intelligence of one's dear ones sounds like a surprisingly pedestrian flaw for someone over a century old," Mycroft quipped, raising an eyebrow.

The werewolf didn't know how to react to the…was it even a compliment? If Sherlock thought he could deduce his reasoning, it was indeed a show of the highest regard from him. Then again, the politician himself had been spiteful – not only towards him, but towards the sleuth. And he did smell faintly of lies, but honestly, he had no idea if the man even knew how to be sincere. Had he ever been completely honest in his life? Even when he came over to offer them a case, the stench of untruth had never abandoned him. Just intensified sometimes. Irked, John went back to the sitting room – slamming the door again.

Mrs. Hudson turned to him, startled. She didn't talk to him, afraid he might blow up. At that, John ducked his head in shame. "Sorry, Mrs. Hudson. I didn't mean to be so loud. I'm…not myself these days. If you prefer, I could take another room for the moment…" he mumbled. He would still protect her, of course, covertly. But if she couldn't feel safe around him, for everyone's sanity hiding somewhere else for a while to lick his wounds would be best.

That made his landlady glare at him. "John Watson," she declared accusingly "are you planning to leave me all alone here? Isn't it enough that we lost him?" When he looked properly chastened, she added, "Besides, keeping busy is the best way I know to deal with grief…so I might be overtaken by a baking frenzy. It would be too sad for it all to go to waste."

"You're too kind, Mrs. Hudson. If I can help…" John mumbled.

"I'm sure you will," she agreed, hugging him tight. Sherlock better come back soon, because he had no idea how long he could stand not to disabuse her…only he couldn't without confessing their secrets. And that was more likely to traumatise her further rather than cheer her up. What was the bloody (ah!) vampire thinking? In which universe did this look like a sensible move?

Mycroft, apparently relieved by the quiet, decided this was the right moment to open the kitchen's door and slip quickly past them, with a muttered, "I'll be in contact", probably as afraid to be dragged by Mrs. Hudson into a group hug as he was of John giving into his rage again.

Seeing him leave gave the werewolf at least a modicum of relief. And then, suddenly, a wave of fury hit John again. He apologised to Mrs. Hudson, but asked her to allow him a bit of privacy, unable to stand her embrace anymore. She sniffed, but complied, feeling him go rigid. The old lady had at least a bit of self-preservation instinct.

As soon as she was gone, John cussed his wayward flatmate to hell and back, getting creative in his oaths. He half wanted to erase every trace of the vampire's existence, and half wanted to just curl up like an abandoned dog (he wasn't, fuck Sherlock thrice!). With too much sudden energy and no idea what to do with it, he tried the one threat that would usually bring the consulting detective to his senses. _I'm binning everything that is not food fit for *human* consumption_ , he texted his flatmate, wishing he'd kept his old phone so he could punch the keys out of their sockets. That, at least, would have been satisfying.

Sherlock did not run home to berate him. He did not even text back. A simple _Don't you dare! SH_ would have been nice. Well, if the vampire thought this was an empty threat he would have another thing coming, when he finally came back home. After an hour, the fridge was cleaner (and emptier) than it had ever been. Still, despite his words, John had not binned the blood bags, just hidden them in the back of the freezer. It wouldn't do for the consulting detective to come back and have to starve.

What was he supposed to do now? Well, he still had his job as a doctor, of course, and he'd need to cheer Mrs. Hudson up… Start by giving Sherlock a piece of his mind, and then possibly handcuff the two of them together inescapably, no matter how good a picklock the vampire fancied himself. Yup, it was dark, but fuck it, he was a wolf…and his companion had just fled him. It was not okay. Packs worked together. Even lone wolves weren't really lone – not if they wanted to last long. There could be a lone couple, but you didn't run away from your mate. It just wasn't done. Not that they were a couple, not like that – they had enough things to come to terms with, without the added stress of figuring out a romantic entanglement.

Besides, the sleuth had said that he wasn't interested, when they weren't even out yet…and if this latest exploit didn't speak loud and clear of disinterest – of not caring for John at all – what else should be required to pass that message? He hated Sherlock now, _hated_ him. (No, he didn't.)


	7. Chapter 7

_Disclaimer: Of course I still don't own a thing. A.N. I apologise, Sendai…but this had to happen. And in case someone doesn't know what 'this' is…_ _ **trigger warning: TORTURE.**_ _I promise I'll try to write another funny parentlock this month to make it up to you all, though. ;-)_

Literally chasing a ghost was more gruelling than Sherlock would have expected. Of course, Moriarty wanted to be found (not caught…never, ever caught), so the consulting criminal did leave some clues for him to follow. Crumbs, if you wanted.

The sleuth was still surprised at how a respected academic in the fields of mathematics and astronomy might have become obsessed not only with revenge (understandable) but with childish fairytales, too. It certainly made one wonder about the nature of the hereafter. Did ghosts even experience the proper afterworld all souls did? Or did their being stuck here mean they didn't go through the common fate?

It didn't matter in the end, did it? Knowing that would not help the consulting detective face his enemy now, and it wouldn't even be useful information about his future either. When the consulting detective had accepted his destiny as vampire (because he couldn't imagine losing Watson, not so soon…and it had felt 'soon', even after a decade together), he'd signed away his soul. At least he supposed, it's not like anyone, even his sire, could speak of what happened when they died definitively with any certainty. He'd never heard of the ghost of a vampire, though. Then again, he'd never researched deeply into it. What was done was done. No room for regrets, and fear of the afterlife was simply a way to make one's existence more miserable than it had to be.

Still, what would have once been a pleasure – the Work of his life (well, existence), with a worthy adversary, just as clever as him – had become exhausting and frustrating instead. It was puzzling.

He had John for less than two years, much less than the full decade he'd known Watson before his first run in with Moriarty. No, not even had – God knew John wasn't his, no matter how much he longed for it. He might have been accepted, but not truly claimed – and certainly he didn't have any right to claim the werewolf back. Against that, he'd spent decades in willing isolation – almost a century – before, once again, meeting a John Watson at Bart's. One would think that being alone would not pain him. Not even be consciously registered.

Instead, there was a John-sized rip in the fabric of the universe. The sleuth kept expecting to see a compact, golden figure at the edge of his line of vision. Especially if he'd gone too long between 'meals', tired – or better said, exhausted (who knew that vampires could be worn down, too?) – he'd catch himself straining his eyes to see where John was. If his friend had remained too far behind, if he'd been caught by an unseen enemy.

Then, he'd jolt to the here and now and repress a sigh. Yes, John was definitely too far behind – miles and miles, by the thousands – but, at the very least, he wasn't in danger. Not while Sherlock played by the rules. And he did. As much as he'd always hated bending to another's diktat, he let himself be manoeuvred – like a pliant, docile puppet.

It made him sick to his stomach – but, needs must when the devil drives. And Moriarty was as close to the actual devil as the consulting detective was ever likely to meet. He'd met his share of preternatural creatures, a number of whom had rather loose ethics. But none as sadistic and driven insane as the ghost of his former nemesis.

Well, he supposed that the insane part was actually the one perk of his situation. An entirely rational Moriarty, if dedicated to revenge, would probably have made sure to maximise the agony the consulting detective was in at any given moment.

As it was, when he (once again) caught up with whatever body Moriarty had deemed worthy to inhabit, there was no saying the welcome he might receive. Sometimes, he could have sworn that the ghost felt mostly…nostalgic, or perhaps even – dared he say it – lonely. Then, he would anonymously receive a ticket for the opera, or possibly a concert…and someone would approach him in the foyer, a familiar smirk on an incongruous face, and they'd debate the merits of players, singers, and what the set designer had to be drunk on to believe that was an acceptable rendition. They reminisced fondly about when both singers and everyone else involved had the author's instructions and behaved properly.

Afterwards, Moriarty would reward him with some small department of his resurrected organization that the ghost allowed to be wiped out. Maybe a terrorist cell. Sometimes a drug ring, and there was always a smirk on the consulting criminal's lips when he hinted at that. Was he wondering if the vampire would help himself to the wares, before handing the man over to the local police?

If so, the ghost would be disappointed. One of the few good traits of his rebirth was that the only dependence he had at the moment was the one towards blood, and that technically counted as nutrition. He'd faked weaning himself out of his chemical crutch, back in Baker Street, and how elated had Watson been that his concerned lectures had finally borne fruit.

Annoyingly, his body had been stuck how it was at the time of his first Reichenbach adventure, arms ruined by decades of injections and all. That meant that anyone who ignored his true nature and had managed to accidentally glance at his arms (read: Detective Inspector Lestrade the younger and his squad) assumed the days of his use to be much more recent, and mistrusted him – addicts were notoriously prone to relapses.

And now he'd just made himself miss Lestrade, both of them – the XIXth century one, and his descendant. As if it wasn't bad enough to feel John's absence like a phantom limb. He hated slow days, when his mind was free to wander. Honestly, nothing was a worse torturer than his own imagination and...feelings, he might as well admit that. He did have feelings still, despite technically not having a beating heart anymore. And they were a damn nuisance.

Did Moriarty know? Was this the reason for the occasional pauses in their game, the peaceful (hateful) stretches with no move to make, because one round had been played and another one hadn't started yet? At home, it would have been a welcome respite. Here, it was just a boring, bleak span with nothing else to do but fight the temptation to call home.

Yep, call, not text. He'd gone through this already. He knew how it was (so he thought). Write the message, get it out of your system, burn it. it had served him well when studying under his sire. But now – now he could literally hear John's voice, and that desire kept gnawing at his insides. Would it be considered contacting if he called when John surely had the phone turned off, so that no talking would occur, but Sherlock still got to hear his answering machine's message? If he didn't leave one in turn, it wouldn't really be communicating…

No, no, he needed to stop giving himself convoluted justifications. Moriarty certainly kept track of John's interactions, or his threat would have been empty, and that would inevitably slip out some day. Whatever the ghost did, the stakes were too high for the consulting detective to ever take a chance, no matter how desperate he was to reach out. Now if only Jim fucking Moriarty, former mathematics professor and permanent crime planner, would give him an inkling, he would have moved on and continued their game.

His nemesis had very clearly asserted that he reserved the right to lead their deadly dance, and expected the detective to follow. He wasn't allowed to indulge in his wishes. Well, they mostly involved hiring a sub to recover the consulting criminal's dead body out of its watery grave…if only he'd known where it was. True, the professor had plunged down the falls. But had his remains stuck there? Had the Aar river swept them away, possibly into the Rhine? And then? Had they run aground somewhere, or were his bones lulled on the floor of the North Sea itself?

If the ghost's permanence was, as 'Mycroft' asserted, tied to his physical relics, was he supposed to play the obedient puppet for the insane revenant until its bones were finally pulverised? Could he track the body based on the sheer fact of its persistence after a century? So many questions, and so little time for the answers. For as much as Moriarty didn't mind letting him be bored for a while, he never allowed the sleuth enough time and ease to pursue his own investigations on the side.

Having to put one's life fully in another's hands was maddening. No, he had to amend that – it was maddening when you didn't trust the other. He wouldn't have minded at all putting his own life in Watson's hands (nor John's, now, let's be honest) and obeying their whims. But he knew that neither of them would ever purposefully torment anyone, much less him, whom they'd (undeservedly on his part) cared for. But having to play into Moriarty's hands…it might be deserved (both should have died and left the world that day – both cheated), but it was still a nightmare.

Of course, sometimes his life was a nightmare in a more earned sense. The consulting criminal would get bored of their cat-and-mouse tag, of their refined soirées, and take him at his words. On the roof, the sleuth had admitted he'd endure chains and whips and whatever else the ghost could concoct for the sake of his friends' safety. And endure he did.

The clues he'd been offered would lead him to a dark alley. He could, technically, get rid of the people attacking him en masse very easily…if he had permission to. But inevitably Jim – in whichever body he fancied at the time (all aesthetically pleasing, mind you, it wouldn't do to possess a lout) – would step out of the shadows, click his tongue and warn him, "Sherlock, honey, behave."

Sherlock Holmes was dead – once again, in the most public and widespread of fashions. He changed his appearance enough not to be easily recognised by someone who might have doubted it. Oddly, there were some people who suspected, and while he understood that the best thing to do about it was to do absolutely nothing and let them pass for fools, he wondered what his handler thought of them. Anyone casually mentioning his identity, as a well-known fact – especially coupled with the glint in his eyes Moriarty always seemed to get – would be the consulting criminal's avatar…which meant that he had to submit.

The consulting criminal always made sure that his local branch (really, the man had always had the mindset of a multinational corporation's CEO) had the proper tools to truly hurt him. Holmes had downright ignored the very existence of ghosts, no space for it in his brain attic for something he would never be, much less looked up their weaknesses or limitations.

In the meantime, Moriarty had clearly researched vampires in depth, and knew in depth what would hurt him and exactly how much. After all, it wouldn't do to damage him more than intended, or so severely that he would be unable to spring back once he was released, and be unable to play another round.

Because this was the truth – the confusing, haunting (ah!), painful truth. If ghosts were held back by unfinished business, and Moriarty's business was – obviously – his revenge, one would think that, finally having his old enemy at his mercy, he would murder the sleuth. Slowly, of course. Painfully, that was a given. But in the turn of a month, maybe two. Why bother with this routine? Catch and release.

Well, not release. But inevitably, Jim's chosen body would get just a little too close. Hiss, "You've become boring, Sherlock. That won't do. That won't do at all, honey," right in his ear… and angle himself just so.

That was as much an obvious signal as any other. Starved, on the fine line betweem crazed and ready to give up and let himself die (that seemed to be what snapped Moriarty out of his sadistic mood), the sleuth would sink his canines in whatever body part was closest, and guzzle, sloppily, greedily. Suck him dry, always, until not a drop remained inside the body of the week. Part of him wondered if the ghost liked the joke, and was silently cackling in whatever liminal dimension revenants existed when not manifesting in the physical world.

And then…well, then all bets were off. With the sudden energy boost running high-like in his veins, the next time one random goon came around to torment him – and it never took too long, as Moriarty's underlings shared their master's penchants – they were dead. It didn't matter if he was bound. He'd rip the chains right out of the walls, and then, well, they made for nice additional weapons until he could free himself.

He never stopped at one, either. He'd get rid of all his torturers…messily. Make an additional meal of some of them – depending on how wide the local branch was, even all sometimes – and turn all the hatred and frustration for his helpless situation into fuel for a savagery that would have appalled his sire. That, honestly, disgusted him too. Possibly the consulting criminal wasn't playing a game, or exacting revenge… no, in his lucid moments, Sherlock suspected that the ghost was proving a point.

"You're not any better than me. I was the criminal mastermind whose existence couldn't be tolerated? And you the knight in shining armour who freed the world from such a scourge? Let's be honest and stop with the ridiculous advertising your old partner spread. You can't really tell me you believed that. No, no, Holmes. You're as much a force of destruction and brutality as I ever was. Or, to be precise, you're even worse. I can be calculated in my malice, but you? You're a brute." Moriarty had never sneered as much to him, true. But he would have every right to.

Holmes' conscience certainly hissed as much, outraged, whenever he finally found a semi-secure den after fleeing his temporary prison. For some reason, it sounded very much like his actual older brother, even when he hadn't thought about the man in a long time. He might have attached his brother's name (and snarled it) to the ridiculous government official, but he didn't indulge in memories of his youth. He wasn't _that_ masochistic.

The confused, aghast part of himself wondered if the malicious ghost wasn't, after all, being considerate towards the world, by keeping busy the bloodthirsty monster he'd turned into. Left to his own devices, he'd carved himself a niche where no one was hurt by his nature, true. Or at least, he'd believed that – had to believe that, for his own peace of mind. But was he right? Or was his 'clean' buying at blood banks all the same murdering actual humans, by taking the life-saving fluid away from these who needed it?

And – more importantly – if even his choices were polite and acceptable like he'd thought at first, how long would they last? How long until someone drove him past his self-imposed limitations and he drained more than a handful of criminals with a taste for torture? It had never happened yet, true. But in vampire terms, he was little more than a toddler. Was Moriarty the hero in this second act of their tale? Maybe the ghost thought he was keeping people safe from _him_ …

No, no. Such morose thoughts were only the result of a mind dazed by too long a torment. An attempt to rationalise his being forced to give into another's whims, no matter how sadistic, by telling himself it was for the better.

In a sense, it _was_ for the better – it kept everyone safe. Lestrade the younger. The current Mrs. Hudson, with all the strength of his long-missed housekeeper plus double the spunk. John. John, who really needed no other specification, because he was simply everything to Holmes. They were alive, and unhurt, and going on with their usual lives and, consequently, brightening the days of everyone they came across as much as they did for him, in their too-short association. That was surely enough of a motive to keep him going. Enough to justify not what Moriarty's sadistic whims planned for him, but his own agreement to be ripped apart, again and again.

Things hadn't changed since 1891. The consulting criminal was an agent of evil, and had to be stopped. Only, he didn't have anymore the knowledge or skill to do so. All he could do was play bait while someone else found a way to despatch the ghost right to hell. It was a basic hunting tactic – distract the dangerous creature with adequate bait, while the hunter carefully aimed and took it out.

Playing goat to Moriarty's tiger (with how fond the man had been of his sniper, Holmes doubted he would have protested the comparison) was not a role the sleuth cared for. Especially a goat who was utterly mauled. But the detective would have conferred it to anyone else. After all, the permanence – so to speak – of the dead criminal was his fault. If he had embraced the mutual destruction they'd agreed on, Moriarty wouldn't have needed to take revenge. No unfinished business to hold him here.

If only for that, he deserved his punishment. It didn't mean that, sometimes, he didn't have to stop himself from contacting not one of his friends, but the British government official who'd promised his help and then, apparently, went to sleep. "Get a move on! You promised to take care of this. Get rid of him before my last neuron snaps, will you?" He wanted to tell him, possibly scream it.

If his brother had taught him anything, though, it was that one single person – especially a rude, impatient one, with no leverage at all – couldn't pressure a politician into anything… But he _could_ annoy one into purposefully hindering his goal very easily.

So his only choice was to wait it out. _If_ it would ever end. Sometimes the detective would despair, and not necessarily when he was prey to Moriarty's sadistic moods. Being alone and lost, even if unhurt, could be enough to make his soul ache. Time piled up, pressing on his lungs until it seemed to steal all the oxygen he didn't remember he didn't need from the room. All the time he'd waded through, not just the last few John-less months. More than a century weighing on him, when he'd never thought he'd see old age. When he wouldn't have, if Watson hadn't come along and made him want to _stay_. (He would never regret Watson, or any choice he'd made under his influence. Never.)


	8. Chapter 8

_Disclaimer: I don't own anything._

Sherlock's silence was bad enough in the first days. But being ignored for months on end? That was intolerable. What the fuck was the fucking _tick_ doing? And the fact that John was resorting to the preternatural version of racial slurs was indication enough of how he felt.

If he wanted to piss off, free to, of course. But at the very least a goodbye wasn't unreasonable to ask, was it? Or, I don't know, sending someone to get all his junk out of the flat. Surely it could be arranged, even with his very public death. Mycroft wouldn't mind acting as a go-between, as he'd already proven.

John couldn't count the number of times he'd been this close to smashing everything belonging to the vampire. Skull, violin, microscope, the whole chemistry set – he glared at them for occupying a space his flatmate had left empty. It wasn't fair, was it? Why should he keep them?

Why hadn't he boxed them at least? It would be understood. _Expected,_ even. He even toyed with the idea of selling the whole of it, or just give it away to charity, so that when eventually Sherlock would send for it (would he even ever come back? He was starting to doubt it) he could just shrug and retort, "Never heard of all that."

Truth was, he couldn't bring himself to touch any of that, too afraid that if he actually did, he'd lose control of the wolf. To have his soul, besides his heart, fractured, and turn into a mindless, howling, desperate thing. The subsequent inevitable visit by Mycroft's minion was not something he looked forward to.

What was he supposed to do? Some days he'd wake up determined to leave London and sniff out the man, wherever he was. Fuck him. They needed to talk. Sherlock couldn't just up and disappear…it's just that he did. Then he'd remember the government official's vague hints, and stay put.

Though, with the man's very public suicide, any of his enemies would ignore them, wouldn't they? Unless they knew about the vampire's nature and thought they could lure him back to ambush him. Well, good luck with that. They weren't even worth a text. Any such plan would be only a deep disappointment for anyone involved.

Still, it didn't mean that he never left the flat in order to guard it. God knows that there were days he did – days he thought he wouldn't leave not the flat, but the very bed anymore. But he was stubborn, if nothing else. The vampire might be a flaming asshole, but it didn't mean that John would give him the satisfaction of destroying his life. He had commitments.

To Mrs. Hudson, who didn't deserve to have to care for his own despondent self when she was going through grief herself. The way she insisted, some days, that "Sherlock hadn't meant to do that, he must have been blackmailed into it, dear," broke John's heart.

He nodded, of course, because she needed to believe that. But if it wasn't by choice, why wouldn't the vampire send a warning, or ask for help, or just about anything? Something clear, not just Mycroft mumbling vague clues. Nevertheless, arguing the point wouldn't help anyone, so the doctor just nodded wordlessly and patted her back when his landlady fixated on that.

To Henry, too, even if one'd think that taking care of others would be the last thing he was able to do these days, when he barely could tend to himself. But he would always pack and spend the moons with his new friend. The vampire might be the type to disappear and ignore everyone who counted on him. John was not.

It wasn't just that they were supposed to keep an eye on Baskerville's progressive dismantling. Henry, no matter how long ago he'd been bitten, was still a pup in his behaviour most of the time, and John was going to stay and ensure he knew all the tricks, and didn't accidentally get in trouble. With monster chasers, nervous soldiers, and God knows whoever else wandering in the area, it was only too easy to blunder.

Always counting on Henry's undead shrink to make witnesses forget (if she'd mind-wiped Henry himself, John had no doubts that she'd done so to occasional bystanders, too) wasn't an option. After all, even the best of them were ultimately unreliable.

Besides, Henry was pack. Still having part of it – and someone who easily and gratefully recognised him as alpha, too – was a balm to the wild part of him. He wasn't a complete failure. He was still good for something.

The younger werewolf wasn't as oblivious as he used to be, either. He noticed how John's mood darkened, having to leave for his halved den, and after ten months from Sherlock's…departure, he offered, "You could stay. If you want to, I mean. As in, permanently. I'm sure we can find you a job around, somewhere, you're greatly talented after all…and, well, room is not an issue, as you see. Honestly, I have way too much space to myself too."

It was stilted, and Henry was waving his hands around in a slightly spastic way, but for a moment, John stilled on the threshold and seriously considered his offer. He wouldn't have to be surrounded by the sleuth's mementoes anymore. He could move on – wasn't that what people did?

In the end, he shook his head. "Thanks for the offer, but it's not something I can see myself doing. Not at the moment. I already have a job, and…well, my landlady has always been very caring. I don't want to leave her alone." It was true, all of that. But mostly, it was his own damned stubbornness. He wouldn't let the absentee vampire's possessions drive him from his own home.

Henry nodded. "Of course. …I'll see you next month?" he queried, hesitant, as if his misstep could have cost him his mentor's companionship.

"You can count on it," John assured, with a strained attempt at a smile. _He_ was the dependable one.

Honestly, there were times he thought he would go mad. Sometimes he thought he already had. He got flashes of his absent…companion (no, that was definitely the wrong word, but what was the right one?). It was almost expected that a tall, raven and curly haired stranger would confuse his brain for a moment. It played on the longing that never went away, no matter how furious he was at the vampire, and honestly, he could shrug it away.

As soon as he got close, though, his sense of smell warned him of yet another false alarm, luckily before he made a fool of himself with random passers-by. He didn't doubt that he'd quickly gain a name as the neighbourhood madman if not for the wolf in him. Sadly, he wasn't able to control his deplorable, automatic reflex to hurry up towards them. Though with the London crowd nobody could ever be sure John was truly zeroing on them, what with him abruptly stopping and feigning interest in whatever was at hand…A number of convenient shop windows, including some embarrassing ones, or at worst, the number of houses, pretending he was looking for a specific address.

Greater cause for concern would have been the incongruous images of his former flatmate he got when there was no convenient lookalike for him to pin them on. Was it just habit? Having seen the man so many bloody times that his brain still expected him to be there, intruding in his practice when he was busy with patients and trying to commandeer his whole attention because of a case, or simply walking beside him and sneering at the dull masses?

Or maybe…Vampires weren't telepaths, were they? Of course, they had their thrall and some power on people's brain – Henry could testify – but they didn't truly read minds, no matter how probable that seemed with Sherlock. Much less they could send messages…visions…to people no matter the distance. It wasn't that his flatmate hadn't bothered texting because he could, at any time, project a message, a warning, an astral body projection or whatever it was called to him.

If they could, once he'd been outed, Sherlock wouldn't have bothered texting him anymore. If he was anything, the undead was impatient, always looking for maximum efficiency. So no, these weren't attempts at contact, no matter how much the werewolf wished that the sleuth found him worth of keeping updated. Just his own fevered brain's imagination.

Fuck. He was going to be sectioned, and then Mycroft would have him moved to Baskerville or some similar place because no normal asylum could hold him. …Or, well, that'd happen if he let it slip to anyone that he was seeing things – people – that weren't there. All he had to do was keep quiet. He'd become very adept to it.

After all, if he talked – if he talked about what had happened…he would have to get in a brawl more often than not. Colleagues, patients, strangers who became patients just to gape at him: everyone seemed to want to ask the same thing. "How could he fool you?" "How could you live with a murderer and not notice?" "How…?"

He'd learned to stop it. _John_ certainly didn't mention…him. And as soon as someone even _looked_ like they wanted to pry, the doctor would glare at them so darkly that their mouth snapped shut. John could practically see their brain suddenly considering that perhaps he hadn't been an oblivious victim, but a devoted accomplice clever enough not to get caught.

The idea in itself was so ludicrous that the werewolf was tempted to burst into laughter, but that would be seeming a bit more insane than he wanted to appear. If his lips still strained into a half-smile that made the person talking to him go very, very still, well, that wasn't his fault. Maybe he shouldn't have enjoyed it so much, but fuck it all. The bastards thought it was acceptable to prod at trauma (though a different one than they believed). If they were terrified into behaving decently, John truly was offering a service to the community.

What a fucking spectacle the fucking vampire had made of his 'exit'. Really, it would have been more theatrical only if he'd literally been pursued by a bear. That meant that even months after – hell, even more than a year later (and he was _not_ talking about the anniversary, thankyouverymuch) –John didn't seem to be able to have interactions that did not somehow end mentioning Sherlock. That cut down his chances to have a semi-normal life even in the good days, when his own soul didn't feel like it was being hit with a sledgehammer. It figured that the sleuth somehow found a way to ruin his life _in absentia_ , even more so that when he was actually around to bother him.

Twenty moons after being rejected (can't blame the wolf for instinctively counting like that), he was almost shocked at having Mary, the new nurse – a dainty, blonde girl, but with a steel core – blatantly flirt with him. He had become a grim, gruff creature, and people just left him well alone by now.

At her come-on, he retorted snappishly, "I admit, that is a new approach. You won't get to pry all the juicy details of Sherlock's existence out of me."

She blinked owlishly and queried, "Who? I'm afraid you have the wrong person. I really think that there's more to you than you pretend to, and I'd like to get to know you better. But you, not…Shylock or whomever."

He growled, "Oh, come on! He was on all the news for weeks. No use playing pretend." The wolf could smell lies on her at first, but not so much in this latest sentence. It was confusing. But really, why would she even flirt with him when he was so obviously broken.

"I'm afraid I was in the USA – for a recurrent training course, you see, I want to be the best – and I didn't really keep updated with things from here. Studying night and day," Mary replied, with a shrug that pleaded for sympathy.

Frankly, John was too angry over her (purposeful?) misspeaking to even fake being understanding. "Sherlock," he corrected brusquely, throat clogged. "He was…my friend, and he...left. This world, I mean. A moment I wasn't keeping an eye on him, and he…" He wasn't supposed to talk about it! But as much as he'd thought pretending it never happened would help, having this pretty thing act as if his flatmate had never existed was suddenly intolerable.

She paled. "God, John, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to renew your hurt. I…know how it feels, I mean, I obviously don't know what you're personally going through, but I had a dearest friend who just…ended it all. The absurd thing is, he looked more bored than sad. That's why I went abroad, in part. You know, new life, clean slate…" she mumbled, eyes downcast. Any smell of lie had disappeared entirely. _This_ was absolutely genuine.

Now John was the one who felt sick with guilt. "I…didn't mean to snap at you. I'm a horrible person, I know. I just…" he trailed off, unable to put his knotted, vile feelings into words.

"I understand," Mary finished for him. "There were – heck, sometimes there are – days I want to burn the world for going on when he's not here anymore, and anyone unfortunate enough to exist in it. I'm not going to put pressure on you, John. But I know that there's more to you than what you think you have to give now. I felt it, possibly because I sensed that you are like me – and I have to believe my life can go on, too. So…if ever you want anything – just a coffee, maybe – knowing I won't ask, I won't pry, I'll just be there, give me a call, will you?" She handed him a slip of paper with her number.

"I'll be honest, Mary, because that's the least you deserve. There aren't a lot of chances I'm ever going to use this number. I'm just…not there yet, and I'm glad you are, truly," he replied, not making a move to accept it.

"I know. As I said, no pressure. Just take it all the same. In a month, a year or never, I won't mind when or even if you use it. You are fascinating yourself, doctor Watson," she insisted, not putting it away.

He did take it then, with a wan smile. It seemed simply the path of less resistance. He was tired. So tired.

Still, finding Mycroft in his home – in Sherlock's armchair, nonetheless – any exhaustion, both from a long day at work and in his very core, disappeared from John in a moment, and he growled deep in his throat.

It was enough of a warning for the government officer to get up and casually get on the sofa – but not to get him to leave. What the fuck did he want?

"My being here has a point, doctor Watson," Mycroft pointed out calmly.

John ignored him and went to make strictly one cup of tea (that required way more focus than it should).

The man continued to talk airily, "My data mention that you've been…accosted by a nurse. Mary Morstan."

At that, John turned to glare at him. "That doesn't require a meeting," he snapped.

"Allow me to dissent," Mycroft retorted without heat, "do you mean to take her up on her offer?"

"That's really none of your business," the doctor declared testily. "You don't get to dictate who I …breed with, or whatever other distasteful notion you might be holding."

The government official actually turned his nose up in distaste at that. "Of course I don't want to interfere with your bedroom activities," he huffed, "but I have extra data you really should know in order to make an informed choice."

John went to his armchair and plopped down in it. "Start talking, then," he ordered.

"Well, of course the first thing that awoke our interest was her very name. Mary Morstan. It was in our files as the wife of Sherlock Holmes' companion back in nineteenth century, and after the whole Moriarty affair, we're rather wary of homonyms."

Apparently the only thing that the blogger got from this was, "Sherlock's companion? What's that even supposed to mean?"

"His flatmate, certainly. As for anything else… it's not my place to say, wouldn't you agree? You can ask him when you'll meet him again."

There was a simple certainty in his voice that immediately made John's anger vanish. He wished he could have as much belief in the vampire's return. "If you have anything to say, be quick," the werewolf ordered, but there was no more bite to his words.

"Well, for starters, her name is not Mary Morstan. I suppose she thought it was ironic, given that she's apparently intent on pursuing you. But her actual name is Rosamund Moran, and she's well known to some of our…other departments. Actually, she was a fine agent – MI6 – until she started to chafe under the rules. But that's sort of a…family tradition, you could say," Mycroft revealed, a decidedly unamused smile on his lips.

"MI6? What the fuck is she doing as a nurse?" John asked fervently.

"Well, she'll do whatever needed to get close to her target," the government official revealed, with a shrug, "she's smart, actually has some measure of medical knowledge – it can be necessary on the field, as I am sure you understand – and is a quick study. But her family connections are the most interesting part of the equation here."

"Don't tell me she's somehow related to the royal family or something," the werewolf sighed. He didn't need complications at this point of his life.

Mycroft actually scrunched his nose at that, looking mildly horrified. "Of course not! No, her family is noble, but not that much, thank God. And it had its high and lows…especially in the latest century or so, when one of them was involved in quite the scandal."

"Christ, man, shouldn't you let hundred-years old gossip die? Why would you come over to share?" John blurted out, rolling his eyes.

"Because Sebastian Moran, Colonel of the Bangalore Pioneers during another of our Afghan wars, talented sharpshooter and renowned big game hunter – he even wrote a few illuminating books on the subject – became the second in command and favourite sniper of professor James Moriarty, when the latter was the head of the most vast criminal network in Europe." Mycroft dropped the bomb nonchalantly, as if it was really nothing more than old time chinwag.

The blogger swallowed the sudden alarm and heartbreak, before echoing, "…Moriarty?"

"Exactly, John. The one whose restless spirit has been such a bother, and that caused your flatmate's departure. However you want to interpret it, I'm sure I'm not revealing anything you aren't well aware of. My point is, ghosts actually need some physical reminder to attach themselves to. Moriarty's body is lost and, hopefully, long decomposed…Now who's more likely to have had something of his of enough significance for his spirit to latch onto than his partner in crime? Especially one rumoured to break with and for him laws that drew more shocked gasps than simple murder or smuggling…to be clear, the Labouchère Amendment," the government official expounded, with a smug little smile.

"The what?" John queried, puzzled.

Mycroft actually sighed in disappointment at that. "The anti-gay laws, doctor Watson. You can't expect the 19th century to be sensible on that regard," he explained.

"Wait, so Moriarty and this Moran were lovers? And you think Moran has some gift of his that Moriarty's ghost is riding on?" the doctor said, trying to make sense of something that didn't seem to want to, his brain short-circuiting at the very mention of the consulting criminal.

The other man didn't actually reply. His eyes telegraphed, "Obviously. How are you so slow?" well enough.

"And you think it – whatever it is – remained in the family?" John inquired, the wolf in him rising darkly and demanding it (and every last Moran, for added security) be destroyed.

"We can't be certain, of course, but I'd expect to. After Rosamund was dismissed from MI6 because of her…unpredictable behaviour, she's rumoured to have gone freelance. I don't need to tell you whom some informants said she was working for," Mycroft pointed out, his eyes as cold and ruthless as John himself felt.

"No, I don't think you need to," the werewolf agreed, with a tight smile, "thank you for the info."

"I felt that you needed them for a thoughtful choice. Have a good day, Doctor Watson," the government official replied, getting up and twirling his umbrella once before taking his leave.

John took a deep breath to steel himself, then thanked his good luck for his own meekness out of sheer emotional exhaustion. He fished the telephone number out. He felt almost sick, when he tried to instil some cheer in his voice to greet, "Hello, Mary…"


	9. Chapter 9

_Disclaimer: Of course I don't own Sherlock. I'd never have allowed it to get so low. ;D_

John would never forgive himself for taking three months and a half before he attained his aim. But it was necessary. Sure, technically he could have just shifted and mauled Mary at work, or at the coffee shop where they had their first date, stolen her keys and burned her whole house to the ground. That would have taken care of the situation, most likely. And he couldn't say that the wolf in him didn't find it a supremely appealing option. For all her military past, he doubted that she'd be quick enough to counteract a suddenly appearing beast aiming for her throat.

Mycroft would have a conniption, though, if he acted so publicly, and the doctor owed him something for the info he received, certainly. Leaving a mess of epic proportions for him to clean up seemed like poor thanks – and that plan was certain to attract the attention of everyone, and echo wildly, probably up to wherever his former flatmate was currently hiding.

So John had to rein himself in and – actually court her. Ugh. His stomach roiled at the idea. Or better said, allow her to continue courting him. Very possibly it was on Moriarty's orders to keep an eye on him, or maybe because she found him sexy at the pool (it wouldn't surprise the doctor if she was actually there). But whatever the reason, 'Mary Morstan' – or Moran, or any other name she preferred – definitely knew what she wanted, and wasn't afraid to go after it.

Yeah, it, because she never made him feel like a person, and if not for his mission, the blogger would never have made twice – and most probably not even once – the error of acquiescing to her wishes. For all that she projected the mask of "Our experiences are similar – I know how it is, and I won't judge', the blasted woman had – unsurprisingly – all the empathy of a rhinestone.

Subtly at first – and not so subtly soon enough, honestly – she would try to dictate his feelings – tell him not even how he should feel (which would be bad enough) but how he felt. As if she knew it better than him. If not for Sherlock, he would have dropped her in a second – with plenty of shouting, too – but to destroy Moriarty, and – hopefully – get his packmate back, he could do this. He could endure her.

He could have dinner with her, he could buy her gifts, he could even have sex with her. She either didn't realise or didn't care that he was thinking about someone else at the very moment. What drove him mad was that she wouldn't let him in her 'territory'. He offered to accompany her home, like a gentleman…and she wouldn't let him in. Then again, if she was still moonlighting as a sniper, there might be things around her home that Mary the kind nurse shouldn't even recognise, much less own. Of course she'd be careful.

For a long while, they fucked only at Baker Street….and when she was gone, John would start the equivalent of spring-cleaning, even if the last time he did so was one or two days ago, to efface the least trace of her from the flat. More than once she'd accidentally-on-purpose forgotten something behind, and lacking a better option, he'd put it in the hall, by the door – out of the flat. Always on the opposite wall to the one Sherlock and he collapsed against in a fit of giggles during that first case. If she'd ever notice, his excuse was 'd just claim to be an airhead and that it was the only way for him not to forget to give it back.

Eventually, she warmed up to him (and/or found a convenient hiding place for her weapons), and he was finally allowed in her house. Still, she would keep an eye on him, and…not startle, but definitely monitor him, if he so much as left the bed to go to the loo. Finally, she relaxed around him. He could make her a surprise breakfast without her coming up to check what the hell he was doing…which meant that he could search the house, too.

Yes, tying her to the bed the very first time and rooting through the house would have been simpler. But even if she agreed to spice up their sex life, there was no way that she wasn't trained in escapism. Someone with her curriculum was expected to get herself out of tight spots, after all. And having a newly freed, murderous former secret agent coming after him was not on his to-do list.

Not that he feared her. But it would be messy, loud, certainly require Mycroft to clean up and possibly invent a cover for the scene…and part of him insisted that there was no reason to hurry. The vampire had made his choice, after all. For all he knew, if he succeeded, he would have a furious Sherlock hounding him down for having ruined his long game with the consulting criminal.

So he didn't rush his strategy. Let 'Mary' take the lead. Above all, he kept her happy (no, more than happy – utterly smug, in fact). But eventually, he was able to ransack her house without her so much as turning in her sleep.

Of course, it would have helped to have any idea about what the heck he was actually looking for. All he knew was that it was something old and very possibly preserving some body part. But even if the Victorian people could be delightfully macabre – what with their post-mortem portraits and pottery figurines of crime scenes – surely preserving body parts was a step too far if not for science?

Careful, soft-footed, John started methodically going through rooms, looking for possible secret drawers…which he found, but they contained only fake documents, bullet magazines and the like. So he put them back, hopefully undisturbed enough not to rile her up.

He also managed to divine that a bookcase had been put up to conceal the door to a now hidden room, which turned out to contain the bulk of a true armoury. That some things were still scattered around the house meant that the woman he'd slept with expected to possibly have to leave in a hurry, with no time to visit the room and get hold of the biggest, more professional weapons hidden there. Not that it mattered. If your aim was true, you could murder anyone with a Kolibri gun too.

Still nothing on the relics department, though. More and more frustrated, the werewolf had to eventually retire back to their shared bedroom. What if Moriarty had taken his anchor with him? It made a world of sense, in truth…why would he even trust his lover's grand- (…niece? John wasn't even sure) with the only object which could definitely kill him? (Did the ghost know? Or had he been too busy planning revenge and studying his old enemy to even care?)

Well, before giving this attempt – and painful relationship – up as a bad job, the blogger would examine this last room, too. If Moran woke up and protested, he'd just have to deal with her. In the end, John felt so very stupid – and frankly, thought the same of the sniper breathing quietly in the bed. He found what he looked for – and in the most cliché, obvious place of them all.

It was a tarnished, old silver locket. At first it looked like an ancient coin, and John wasn't sure it hadn't been made out of one. He'd never been an expert in that field. When he opened it, though, in the inside he could read 'From Jamie with love' etched in carefully…and a tuft of dry, black hair tied together with a bright string fell fluttering into the jewellery box it'd rested in, among earrings and bracelets.

It looked like a woman's gift, for sure. But Moriarty had been clever, and with the laws of his era, making a love token into an apparent sign of yet another female conquest – something Moran wouldn't need to worry about being caught with, something he could even brag about – was exactly the kind of wit the doctor would have expected from him. Jamie, Jim…James, for the ones not flirting with him. It made sense. Body part, check. Well, just a few strands, but nobody said it had to be a limb. Something the consulting criminal would have valued enough to hold onto it, even without the DNA bond, check. If one went out of their way to craft gifts for a lover at the time, it certainly wasn't for an occasional fling…

John's hand went to take the hair, in order to destroy them, and he accidentally prickled himself on a silver brooch. Ouch. His yelp was involuntary, the burn of silver suddenly tinging his palm, and a single drop of blood welling up.

Of course, that woke 'Mary' up. She might have finally got used to him enough that her subconscious didn't deem him a threat anymore, but with her career, sleeping through that would have meant that she wouldn't have lived long. She woke up immediately and entirely alert, as any trained fighter would. "What the fuck are you doing?" she growled suspiciously.

The werewolf pocketed hair and locket, hopefully without her noticing. He could fight, but if at all possible, he wanted to placate her. Destroying Moriarty came first over punishing his sniper. Why would he even lose time with her when he could be getting Sherlock back? So – in a stroke of genius, if he said so himself – he laughed and said cheerfully, "Busted. Honestly, how do other people manage to surprise their lovers? Or am I the only idiot who can't figure out size by by just looking?"

"Size? Surprise?" she asked, getting up.

"Yep," he confirmed, shrugging, "I mean, I know it's very soon, and most people would think it's too hasty…it might very well be, but you're the only one who understands, and I don't want to risk losing you." Another short, awkward bark of a laugh, and he added, "I mean, what reasons can anyone have to root through your jewellery box? I hope you don't take me for a thief. I'm not Rockefeller, but I'm not so much of a scumbag that I would need to steal from my girlfriend."

"John Watson, are you saying what I think you are saying?" ' Mary' inquired, looking appallingly smug.

"I'm not," he retorted, making her frown again, "I refuse to say it without the proper atmosphere. What can I say, I'm a romantic." She had believed him so easily… did she really think he was eager to keep her in his life?

"That's what I love about you," the woman remarked, approvingly. As if he needed her consent to be. Heck, even the vampire, who used to sneer at his dull girlfriends and cliché choices of date venue, never dared to imply he should conform his nature to any standard. He just implied that John could do better – and frankly, the blogger started to think he was right.

"Well, since we're all awake, I might as well go make tea. You stay here, Mary, breakfast in bed coming in five minutes. Let me spoil you a bit," the werewolf prompted, and she moved to let him pass. Perfect.

It was barely two minutes later when she ran into the kitchen, yelling, "Wait…you did steal something!" But by then, it was all done. Moriarty's hair had gone up in flames on her own kitchen stove, and the locket – just to be on the safe side – was buried in the saltbox. That was supposed to purify it. John would feel better once he knew that it had been melted and turned into a cross, but for now, he could handle her while sure enough that the consulting criminal wasn't still around murdering people for a pastime.

…Actually, he'd done all of it out of instinct, but Sherlock might be angry at him for getting rid of the most interesting enemy he ever had. Oh well. No time to worry about that now. "Yep," the werewolf agreed. It was finally his turn to be smug, "I've done what you should have long ago. There are supernatural creatures, and there are monsters. How sad that you don't know the difference."

"How dare you, cur," she hissed, eyes darting around the room to locate her missing talisman.

"I know my allegiances. It's you I'm surprised about. Eventually relaxing around your target? How unprofessional, Moran," John tut-tutted, "What would great-grandpa say? Or great-granduncle, I suppose." He took two very deliberate steps towards her. No more need to pretend, thank God. "You can stop looking. He's gone. Forever."

At that, she lunged with a furious – and rather impressive, for a minute woman - roar. There was something feline in her moves, and for a second he wondered if somewhere along the line the Moran family acquired some shapeshifter blood of their own. It would be ironic if they had been weretigers. Maybe the shikari was just fighting in a feud against another side of the family?

That was an empty worry, though, because if she could, she would definitely have shifted now, with John restraining her by the wrists and trying to stop what seemed to be a less than reasoned attack. He managed to throw her against the counter and gain the exit. The kitchen was the wrong place to fight, when he was technically unarmed, and she had all the silverware handy. Thankfully, she rushed to save her boss (lover? Would Moriarty even have deemed her worthy?) so quickly that she didn't even stop to get a gun…or John had no doubt that he would have been dead already. He would still have regarded it as a fair deal, but having a bit of luck for a change was very welcome.

It looked like she finally wised up, though, because instead of running after him she lingered. Perhaps amassing all the silver she could find. Perhaps considering the situation and trying to work out a plan to maximise her chances. The werewolf wasn't going to waste time. He took her emergency firearm. He was pretty sure it shot silver bullets, but that didn't mean that they couldn't kill a human. Now, he only needed a place with a good sight on her…Her reaction assured that she would have no peace until she could use his skin as rug, after all.

"You're dead," Moran yelled, still crouched inside the kitchen, busy with…something?

He didn't give her the satisfaction of an answer. Words were empty. Now, if only the chairs and cabinets weren't in the way…Wait, the smell was – what was she doing? It was a nightmare. She couldn't be serious, could she?

"You'll be dead if you go on… I don't even need to do anything," John pointed out friendly. He wanted her dead for what she'd done – for the side she'd picked, for how many people she killed on his orders – but not of her own hand…Not he wanted the pleasure of murdering her. It was just a kind of reflex, he supposed. Medical training kicking in almost unconsciously.

"And you think I care about that? I'll just join him. But you're not going to escape either, no matter how quick you run," the sniper hissed.

She was. Actually building a bomb. One big and ready enough that she was sure he wouldn't be able to outrun it. Well, that put the gun out of the question – without having a clear shot, what if he accidentally detonated it? Only one choice, then. John threw the gun away, shifted and with two jumps he was on her, batting the almost done explosive far from them and snarling.

Whether she'd been serious about it, or it had been a trick to lure him in, John wasn't sure. What he knew was that she manoeuvred nimbly enough to stab a silver knife in his soft belly. The wolf yowled and – mindless with pain and hatred – ripped her throat apart…and still, there was a mad, almost triumphant gleam in her eyes while they went out.

The fiery burn spread in lines of agony from his stomach, blood seeping slowly from the wound. The knife was entirely silver – not even just coated, by the feel of it – and so he couldn't even try to remove it by himself. Fuck! He needed…he needed help, as much as it was humiliating to admit. Slowly, he dragged himself away from her dead body, crouching low – tempted to slither, but knowing that would either drive the knife deeper into him or make it drag, worsening his wound.

Still, he managed to get to the other room, and then he shifted partially. Changing entirely back would have needed too much strength now – one he didn't have. But calling for help required, if not human voice, human hands to handle a phone. Only his front paws went back to their human state, and he used them to help support himself against a low table, and- finally – to take his mobile phone from it. He really should have put it in his own pocket, when starting to search the flat…But at the very least, he'd forgotten to bring it back to the bedroom like he usually would. The doctor in him didn't think he would have been able to get that far without worsening the wound more than it was safe. (Not that a bloody stomach wound was ever safe, but he knew his limits.)

Mycroft was on speed dial – at number eight – and he pressed the key viciously. Please, let the man not be busy in an international meeting with someone a few time zones away. Four rings passed before the man finally answered, asking coldly, "Is it done?"

All the werewolf could do was whine, in a mix of pain and annoyance. Of course, he was technically on a mission for the man – for all that it'd never been openly stated, it was obvious to every party involved – but a simple, "Hello," would not have been remiss. He might be a 'monster', but that didn't mean that he didn't deserve common courtesy!

"Never mind, I'll have a team there stat. I'm hoping you didn't blow your cover uselessly, but you're under my protection still. Rest easy, John," the government official replied.

The phone fell from the werewolf's hands, and he let himself fall back to the floor and followed the instinct to curl up weakly (probably not his best idea, admittedly).


	10. Chapter 10

_Disclaimer: I don't own a thing._

John took seven days too long to heal from Mary's savagery…which meant that it took seven days. After any other stabbing, his body would have knitted back as soon as the offending object was removed, and in two minutes at most he'd be ready to go on any sort of adventure. But with the fucking knife being silver, without Mycroft's help, he would still be laying on Moran's floor.

The government official could be a right asshole when he wanted to, but you could count on him for knowledge. Not only had he a crew on standby that didn't bat an eyelid at finding a shifted, wounded werewolf in a room, his men knew how to treat him, and – as their doctor ( or should he consider the man a vet?) assured him (and he didn't smell of lies) – quicken his recuperation from that damnable metal.

The man was ex-military too, and John had some interesting conversations with him. He should look for a refresher course, really. It was horribly remiss of him to ignore his own biology after the change, except for the leaflet the army issued to him. He'd been too arrogant – assuming he was all but unbreakable now. That had been a necessary, if stern, wake-up call. He needed to be able to take care of himself...but that was a project for later. Now, he needed to find Sherlock.

That took three additional days, because of course the man…vampire…whatever hadn't done him the courtesy of leaving clear tracks behind him. They had voices, whispers…and John had never loathed more the undead's immunity to lenses. Otherwise, he was sure that one of Mycroft's facial recognition programs would have worked wonders. The man had done so much already. He wouldn't mind lending government property for a few hours, if it meant that the consulting detective would be back and available to help with any natural or supernatural issue that might arise.

Bless the fact that both Sherlock and Moriarty were such drama queens. If the two of them truly knew what it meant 'to go to ground', John might have been too late to save him. (And he was rather sure he wouldn't be able to live with himself afterward). But they'd made an impression everywhere they went. (And what a meandering path that had been). So, Mycroft – and the news his office had painstakingly recovered – could point him more or less in the general direction.

And then…well, it was old good nose work. He had no idea if he even remembered correctly the vampire's smell by now, but as soon as it hit his nostrils, he had no doubt. It was obviously an old scent – very old, barely more than a trace clinging to the cushions of an old, rickety train. But it was _Sherlock_.

From there, nothing could stop him. It didn't matter that he needed to be extra careful, or slow, checking every station and inch of the road for the old trail, and trying to figure out which smells were actually associated, not just superimposed, with his packmate's, so that when he lost the vampire's olfactory markings, he could follow his…Companions? Captors?

He wouldn't be able to know until he met them, unfortunately. He suspected the worst, though. If Sherlock was free, John would have expected him to come back home as soon as the game with Moriarty was forcibly finished, if only to berate him for butting into his personal duel with the consulting criminal.

He texted the contact Mycroft had given him, ensuring people would be on standby, ready to deliver fresh blood in abundance and, if necessary, backup…but John was very stern in ordering that they should stay back unless he asked for it. Given that the government official had suggested them, he was pretty sure these men knew what they were in for, but still, better not have strangers too close when his nerves were singing with adrenaline already.

.

His worst fears were confirmed when he finally found Sherlock's smell again. It was piercing, acrid with sweat, fear and blood. The vampire's scent always had a bloody tinge, but this was obviously blood from outside one's body, and not from a messy meal – which was exactly what should never happen to his species.

Afterwards, the werewolf honestly wouldn't have been able to say what had happened for the next hour or so. He'd always thought that the whole 'wolf daze' was a myth. Since his first moon, he might not have known all that was happening to him, but he'd never entirely blacked out – which was why he'd immediately suspected foul play in Henry's case.

But now, he literally came to only when he was in his packmate's presence. He had shifted, and from the smells and blood drenching his fur, as well as the vaguest of recollections, like a nightmare which vanished at dawn, he knew they were the only two living beings in the building. Anyone else was not just dead…they were undoubtedly littering the floor, torn into, ripped apart, one limb here and another in the next room, dragged like a trophy by a furious wolf.

But Sherlock – chained, weakened, long streaks of his own blood caked on his starved body after the beatings – snapped him not only to reason, but to human form. Even instinctively, he knew that opposable thumbs would be much more useful than claws and fangs.

"This is new," the vampire croaked, voice long unused. "You are usually much more comforting in my dreams." At the same time, his eyes went red and his nostrils flared – blood, fresh blood – and a warm, steady heart pumping it just past the man's skin. Canines lengthened without conscious input, biting into his own lips.

Knowing that he'd been the object of the sleuth's dreams – as a source of comfort, to boot – made John unreasonably, unmeasurably proud. He yanked the chains out of the wall and cradled the vampire against his body. In a minute he'd bring him out (luckily it was night), get him in the provided car and accompany him to a safe house where he could take proper care of him. But for the moment, Sherlock needed a drink to tide him over. He looked likely to keel over before they even reached the door, John was not waiting until his backup navigated here to bring refreshments.

Sherlock dived nose-first, inhaling his scent, lapping at the skin, washing away the mix of sweat and his victims' blood. Why wasn't he biting, though? Honestly, what did John need to do to entice him? "Come on. Have a sip," the werewolf cooed gently.

"Not you. Won't stop… if I start I won't, can't…this is not a dream, is it?" the vampire rambled, sounding quite lost.

"Nope, not a dream. Definitely not a dream. You're safe," John reassured, one arm holding him and another petting his mangled back, feather-soft.

"Then get me somebody to drain!" Sherlock suddenly growled, glaring at him. The fact that he still hadn't bitten was a testament to how masochistically stubborn he could be.

"Afraid I murdered everyone in here for daring to touch you, and I don't regret it. I'm not having you lick the floors clean when I'm right here. I have blood bags, too, outside – but I have strangers out there, too, and I'd rather not have you facing them when you can barely stand. Have a fucking drink and then we can go out, fill you up and get home! It's starting to become insulting, you know?" the former Army Captain retorted, seriously considering forcing him like one would do to stubborn pups that can't entirely figure out how to use a food bowl.

"I'll suck you dry, you suicidal canine!" the sleuth retorted, terrified of himself. He could. And then he would have to kill himself. And it would be worse than anything Moriarty subjected him to.

"No you won't. I trust you," John said, simply.

Finally, the vampire gave in with a deep groan. Sharp fangs pierced the werewolf's neck and he started noisily slurping.

John wouldn't be able to describe the sensation…there were simply no words in any language he knew (which, to be fair, was one and a third, at most) that could properly depict it. Heady was close. Unearthly, unsurprisingly, could almost fit too. But it was all so much more than such simple words could mean.

The doctor thought that he could endure whatever his packmate needed. After all, what good were his regenerative powers if he couldn't even offer a decent meal? When he found himself swaying, though, he found that he didn't even have the voice to protest. To say, "Too quick, slow down, please." Not that giving his life for Sherlock would be something he was against, by and large, but the undead hadn't wanted to do that. So John cradled the – blessedly whole, from the feel of it – nape of his partner and tapped twice, oh so softly. Almost imperceptibly, truly.

That was enough for the sleuth's eyes to go back to their human nuance – and for him to pull himself forcefully away from his friend, with a last, wide lick to further boost the wolf's natural healing powers.

And then…then his lips went back up his blogger's neck to plunder his mouth with a drawn-out, passionate kiss, a faint trace of copper in his mouth mingling with the taste of wild and jam. Had John brought his own jam supply along? The detective would swear he tasted like home, but his senses were on overdrive, nerves afire.

Now it was John's turn to sway slightly, and moan loudly. Sherlock, too, wasn't perfectly steady – after the mistreatment he endured, he'd need a few extra blood bags – but he didn't look as if he was about to fold on himself any second. He seemed alive. More alive he'd possibly ever been in his whole undead existence. "Come along, love," the blogger urged, not even noticing the epithet he used. "I promise we'll get back to this, but after we're somewhere that isn't a crime scene." He offered his arm, so that they could support each other.

"Maybe I like the idea of you turning this hell into a crime scene… for me," the vampire purred, rubbing against him instead, but his sultriness was tainted by a hint of astonishment. As if he didn't expect John to come to his rescue.

"With our track record, I have no doubt we'll have other such occasions. But now I really want to get some more blood in you and bring you somewhere where I can treat you without you getting an infection…if that is even possible for vampires, you know I'm terribly ignorant about things…And then, we can go right back to this, if you're still in the mood," John replied, grinning at him.

Sherlock downright pouted, groaning, "But Jaaawn…", but at a stern look from his beloved, he gave in, took his arm and – somehow – managed to contort himself so that his head lay on John's shoulder… and somehow not get himself dislodged while they walked outside.

Twins glares made sure that John's backup squad did not dare to so much as blink or breathe about the scene. "To the safe house," the doctor ordered, helping the detective inside the jeep, sitting plastered at his side and immediately getting a blood bag out of refrigeration for him to drink.

The consulting detective made a face, not wanting to wash away the heavenly taste of his love. But when John mentioned casually, "You'll need your strength, after all," he started guzzling it down avidly.

By the time they reached the refuge Mycroft procured for them, half of the night was gone. But as spartan as the place looked, it was actually equipped with everything one could need for a first aid/temporary abode situation. They even had a whole storey to themselves – not the basement, smartly. As convenient as it would be from a practical point of view, Sherlock had quite enough of cellars, and John's only wish was to look out for him. Instead, the vampire claimed the central room as his own. There were no windows that could accidentally harm him, and everything – his doctor included – was no more than few feet away.

At John's suggestion, he let himself sink into the tub. His meals had done a lot to restore his health, but he'd still need a good patching up, and washing away the mix of dirt, old, caked blood of his own, and sweat, was a necessary first step.

His blogger had even suggested that he would take care of everything, but the sleuth had assured him there was no need to. Respecting the wishes of the former captive, at the moment, was more important than scrubbing him properly – he could always act later – so, with a last reminder he'd be in the next room and to call if he needed anything, the werewolf left his companion to it.

The doctor had suspected that he might be called in soon. He very much didn't expect an obviously panicked, naked and wet – still no more than half washed – Sherlock to leave the bathroom and run to him, yelling accusatorily, "You're here!"

"Ermm…yes? I mean, I know I'm late, sorry. I wanted to find you before, but,,," John stammered, unwillingly blushing.

"You ruined everything, then!" the detective reprimanded, pointing a finger at him.

At this, the werewolf retorted hotly, "Look, mister, I'm not going to apologise just because I butted in your little private game with Moriarty and killed him! Have you even seen the situation you got yourself into?" He was human, at the moment. But if he'd been a wolf, it was obvious all his fur would be bristling.

"You…killed…Moriarty? Not just whoever he was possessing? The actual ghost?" Sherlock queried, his jaw dropping and a startled look dawning in his eyes.

"Well, I had some help from Mycroft, actually, for the whole intelligence part of the operation, but yep, I did. He has nothing more to anchor him to this world, so by all rules he should be burning in hell with as many of his associates I managed to send after him. Cooperation usually leads to success, even if I know you're not much of a team player," John pointed out, trying and failing miserably not to stare.

The vampire lunged, and their second kiss was all eager, unbridled passion. The blogger was caught by surprise, but he could get used to this – very fast. When they were forced to separate (strictly speaking, the sleuth might not have such an issue anymore , but the werewolf still needed oxygen), the detective murmured, in awe, "You've saved us all."

"All?" the doctor echoed, frowning. He might have technically have saved his love not long ago, but the sentence still made little sense.

"I had to leave, or Moriarty would have had you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade killed. If I contacted you, they'd be dead all the same. I admit I spent a lot of time lately with you in my mind palace, and when you swept in I wasn't entirely sure how much of that was true, what was not…I wasn't in the best frame of mind, and working more or less on autopilot. Which is why I so unforgivably forgot the rules until I was well fed, three quarters through washing and realising that no, I had not fallen asleep, but possibly just accidentally murdered the three people I held dear by letting myself be saved," the vampire explained, his voice breaking slightly at the end.

John gasped. "You did it…for us? Not because, you know…"

"Because what?" Sherlock asked, hating how the sentence trailed into nothing. Despite his considerable talents, not even after becoming a supernatural creature had he acquired the power to read minds.

"Because you got bored of us," the doctor admitted, his voice almost inaudible.

"Oh yes. Because this is so my idea of entertainment, you know. The place you found me in," the vampire scoffed. Everyone was an idiot, that was a given. But shouldn't there be limits to that?

John chuckled out of embarrassment. "I admit that put like that, it sounds beyond ridiculous. Anyway, I'd really hope that your idea of a good time would be more along the lines of what seems to keep happening since I found you, but that's my personal opinion, you know. To each their own."

"Now you're just being cheeky," the sleuth retorted, with a lopsided, predatory smile.

"I am…and you're still here," his blogger pointed out, with a grin of his own, wondering vaguely if this was what being high felt like.

The vampire shivered at that, and the doctor's caring side came to the forefront again. "I'm kinda hoping this happened because you like the idea of more, but patience is a good quality too. So let's go back to the bath, we'll finish getting you cleaned and patched up a bit. And then, if you're still in the mood…we can celebrate."

Sherlock's pout wasn't unexpected, but it made John's heart melt all the same. "Haven't we waited long enough?" the detective asked, his voice thundering into his companion's very marrow – or at least it felt like that.

"A few extra minutes won't kill you," the werewolf promised.

"But are you sure of that?" the sleuth quipped.

"Well, I offered to come along and help. I could supervise your health, too. But if you don't want…" John replied, shrugging.

At that, the consulting detective looked down to himself, and seemed finally to realise his state. He barked a laugh. "I…well, I didn't want you to see the state I was in, not in a place with actual decent lightning...not before our combined healing factors had a chance to make me less of a wreck to look at, and that might take hours. But you've already seen everything there is because of my idiocy, haven't you? And somehow, you haven't been nauseated… Why haven't you?"

"Not easy to nauseate, in case the body parts in the fridge didn't tell you that," the doctor remarked, grinning, "and you never, ever could, no matter what state you're in."

"Well then..if you wouldn't mind, I'd appreciate a bit of help. With my hair at least. I suspect it'll be a nightmare," Sherlock admitted.

"It'll be my pleasure," John assured, following him back to the bathroom, breathing forcibly regulated by reminding himself that he'd murdered the people who had done this to him, already. And resurrecting them to kill them again…and again…and again…would be a waste of time he could spend making it better instead.


	11. Chapter 11

_Disclaimer: Nothing mine, of course. A.N. Aaand…we end. I know I know, this should have been up last month. But a heat wave named Lucifer – and definitely deserving of that name – stopped me from writing during most of the month. I still wrote my other stories, because a rushed, 'filler' chapter, or a silly oneshot would probably be forgotten in the grand scheme of things. But I couldn't give you all a disappointing ending to this story, so I took a hiatus. My dearest Sendai, I'm sorry, this story should have been ready ten months ago… but I hope it is satisfying._

The actual cleaning and patching up took much more time than it usually should…because they kept getting sidetracked. John was more than willing to concentrate on the task, but it seemed that every few seconds they _needed_ to kiss. And nibble. Not that they ever got around to another full feeding, Sherlock had his bags and – werewolf powers or not – it was too soon to drink from John again. The vampire would interrupt them, too, just to lean his head on the doctor's chest and _listen_ for five seconds or so.

"Your heart has a very peculiar rhythm, did you know, John? I've had to listen to tons of hearts during my…absence, make me hungry enough and I'll hear prey through a wall, but none was like yours. Your heart is not just exciting, or mouthwatering…but soothing. It's not something I am used to anymore," he remarked, after the third time he couldn't help himself, a bit ashamed by how little impulse control he was showing.

John interrupted the petting of slightly-less-matted curls, after a good wash, which he wasn't even entirely aware he was doing, to ask, "Anymore?" in a soft voice. He was curious – had been for a long time – and by mentioning it, however implicitly, the consulting detective had given him a valid reason to inquire.

He immediately wished he hadn't asked, because Sherlock startled away from him, eyes too wide, looking for a moment fully like a deer caught in the headlights. The detective licked his lips, and replied, "I…said so, didn't I? I…if you really want to know, I will tell you, of course. But I'd prefer to do so at Baker Street, if you're not in too much of a hurry to know. It would be more…comfortable"

"Of course I'm not in a hurry, love. Whatever you want. You don't have to share anything at all, if you don't feel like it. But I'm your blogger. You can't blame me for being curious," the werewolf assured, with a smile that would hopefully defuse the tension.

"He said something like that, too. once. Well, not blogger of course, blogs didn't exist back then, but…and here I am, planning not to talk about it, and still making a mess. I'm not great today, am I? I promise I will tell you everything when we're home," the sleuth rambled, half of him wanting to call John out on the endearment he'd used and the other too nervous to do so.

"Don't be silly, Sherlock, you are and always will be the most amazing creature I could ever meet," John replied instinctively.

At that, the vampire blushed, surprising himself. Usually he would need a conscious effort, but it seemed that half his brain was subtly engaged in 'how to properly answer to John's behaviour like a human being' without any obvious effort on his part. John made him…human. More human that he'd felt in a long time.

The werewolf's answering grin was definitely pleased. "So…since we're not talking – well, not about that, at least – and I don't think the safe house is stocked with necessities like Cluedo and Risk, any idea how we could spend the next couple of hours, until the plane that Mycroft arranged for us to get back home?"

"I'm open to suggestions," the sleuth replied nonchalantly, Sure, somehow they'd been kissing, and John had even uttered the L-word, though he didn't seem entirely aware he had, or attaching any great weight to it. Still, part of him insisted that the risk of going too far was much worse than the one of stopping too soon. He had been born in the Victorian era, and the only relationships worthy of such a name he had experienced started back in his human life. Such precautions were hard to shed, even after a few decades of it being safe.

"Well, one of the few things we're equipped with is a supposedly sturdy bed. I'm all in favour of testing it, if you feel like experimenting," John quipped, with a lopsided smile.

Well, with an offer like that… "I never turn down an experiment," Sherlock stated, fake-solemnly.

The blond bounded playfully towards the bedroom, the vampire in hot pursuit, seeming to almost glide across the spartan rooms. He caught John one step from the bed, and half-tackled him onto it. Trapping his wolf between his arms, he stilled for a moment, asking, "How far do you want to go?"

"All the way and then some," John replied, rubbing against the body over his.

"Sure? You've been very vocal…" the sleuth queried, his own sentence interrupted by a deep moan, but uncountable not gay declarations stinging still at the back of his mind.

"…In taking advantage of bi erasure so as not to make you think that I would push you to something you didn't want. But since you do want...you better get on with it, mister, because I've been waiting way too long," his blogger cut in.

"I've waited more," Sherlock rumbled. So many lonely decades…they seemed infinite and at the same time melted away into nothingness now, with John's body warm and eager under him. Quick hands made short work of the doctor's clothes, both of them not even noticing the blood spatters left by his earlier spree, in order to save his soulmate. They ended on all the corners of the floor, neither noticing or caring where they landed.

..And then the vampire stilled, a pout on his face, suddenly remembering that this was a stranger's safe house, and as such unlikely to be equipped with lube in the bedrooms. At his disappointed moue, John laughed. "Ooops…forgot it. You'll have to rummage on the floor. I pocketed one of the balms from the med kit, not exactly made for it, but I promise it'll do."

The sleuth groaned and dropped a kiss on a clavicle before breaking contact to look for it. It took less than a minute, but they'd been apart too long already…As much as he aimed for careful, the sheer need of them both was too powerful, and the werewolf's body could take a lot. With John egging him on with wordless groans that bordered on growls, Sherlock soon deemed his lover ready enough, and sank into him, with a drawn out moan.

There would be times – so many times – for slow, careful and teasing. Now, still mildly high from the fight, the reunion, such a rollercoaster of emotions in too short a time, all they wanted was a wild ride. Here – yes – mine – forever – finally would have been the words their lovemaking brilliantly substituted for. As it was, neither could seem to form words, much less a coherent sentence. But they didn't need to. Not when all their senses were fully awash in each other. With smell, taste, touch affirming that yes, this wasn't yet another dream, who needed clunky, stupid words?

Sherlock had never been happier to have thrown his humanity away. As a man, he would be too weak to do much more than kiss after such an ordeal. But as a vampire, after a huge meal, some doctoring, and John's extra healing factor coursing through him, he could let everything that had happened wash away from him like a bad dream, and luxuriate in his long beloved's passion. Thrust, caress, nip and be nipped – obviously only he was inconsiderate enough to break skin (but just the once, and the tongue immediately sneaking to clean any spill only seemed to make him giggle).

The conclusion was as brilliant as they knew it would be (and probably everyone in the city knew about it, not that they cared). Heaven didn't have anything on the love they shared. Afterwards, they snuggled together, the detective contorting himself so he could fit in the other's embrace, and rest his head on his beloved's chest, John breathing him in with every inhale.

Nobody dared to tell them that the flight Mycroft had readied was held for an extra day, because they slept through eighteen hours solid after that, and no one was insane enough to dare disturb them. Not even when the vampire mocked the bureaucrats' pitiful organization when told, after waking up, that they would need to wait for an extra two hours… Not because they were not ready, but because – strangely, but (if they had to take a guess) thanks to his bond with the werewolf – he was awake before sunset, and there was no safe way to have him board.

They'd both taken more than enough planes to ignore it…but they were together, once again, and every minute brought them closer to home. Hence the low buzz of excitement they couldn't seem to quell. They would throw glances at the window, trying to guess (sorry, Sherlock, deduce) where they were and how much longer it would take. Of course, there wasn't much to go on… but chatting softly together, throwing calculations and "Do you think these lights are Milano?" to each other was better than behaving like children and asking, "Are we there yet?" every five minutes like they would have wanted. And if to see better sometimes required that Sherlock lean over John…well, no one was complaining.

Relatively soon (years too late) they were back in London, and one of Mycroft's cars was waiting for them. That might be a sarcastic pet name, and certainly the British Government just wanted to ensure his continued cooperation with the Met – for all the progress made in more than a century, they could still be incredibly blind. Still, the vampire couldn't help a wave of gratitude. Here he was, snuggled against his love, and free of Moriarty's persecution because "Mycroft" had helped – all the way. His own brother, bless him, couldn't have done more. (This didn't mean he'd stop sniping at him, of course – the man would get suspicious).

The sleuth felt like breathing just became easier, as soon as he touched English soil. Entirely psychological? For sure, especially since he didn't technically need to breathe anymore. But the happiness and ease, for a moment, disappeared just where they should be stronger – on the doorstep of 221B, Baker Street. He'd promised John an explanation, and as heavenly as home sounded – _his_ armchair, _his_ violin, proper tea – his beloved's possible reaction to the detective's history made him want to hightail. John had demonstrated he was perfectly capable of tracking him down, though, so that option was out.

"Mrs. Hudson is out," the werewolf remarked, after a quick sniff. "Which is good, I suppose. I'm not ready to share you yet. I am sure she'll want to spoil you rotten when she finds you're back – though we might have to break it gently to her."

"She's made of sterner stuff than you suspect," Sherlock countered, taking steps two at a time. As much as he loved every brick and plank in this house, he wanted to sink into his armchair now. "But it's no wonder – it runs in the family, you see. Both the strength and the reactions to my peculiarities, it appears."

"So you knew her, what, grandma? Or maybe you saw Mrs. Hudson grow up? That would be funny, with her seeing you as a child all the same," John quipped.

"No, no, I met this Mrs. Hudson only a few years ago – I didn't feel like staying, after…and well, if I'd lived here all along people would have started to wonder at some point. I have to move every few decades, if I don't want to raise some questions that neither the government nor I want answered," the detective replied, finally sitting with a sigh of pleasure. 221B, John…the world's tilted axis finally righted itself.

"After…" his blogger encouraged. When the other looked down at his lap, he offered, "Right. Tea first, of course. I don't want to pressure you, if you're not comfortable. But I don't want to be kept out of your life, either. I just want it to be…us, you know? _If_ you agree, that is."

"Of course I agree. I…well, I don't want you to think what we had was an one-time thing, because we were separated so long, because I spread the lie that I was dead, or for any other silly reason. The existence of an Us – as a proper couple – is exactly what I've hoped for since…well, to be honest, since I met you, though it took me awhile to come to terms with it. It took a while for us both, I'd say," Sherlock said, his fingers drumming on the armrest.

"Not going to dispute that," the werewolf exclaimed from the kitchen. A minute later, he came back to offer the sleuth a cup of tea perfectly tailored to the other's taste, and sat on his armchair, cradling a cup of his own.

"I suppose I have to start at the beginning," the vampire declared, after taking a sip. It might do nothing for his body, but it fortified his soul. "I was still human in 1881 when I rented these very rooms from Mrs. Hudson's foremother. I was just then establishing my career, so I needed someone to split the rent. Since I wasn't the most liked of people back in school, I would have never expected to find not just a flatmate, but the most faithful of friends and the perfect lover too. We were careful, of course – at the time, our passion was against the law – but it truly felt as if I'd found my other half, as ridiculously romantic as that sounds."

John didn't want to react poorly – he'd asked, after all – but that was a damned high bar to be compared to, even when Sherlock said he wanted them to be together. The doctor hoped his features didn't show his fears, when he said, "I'm glad you had that." It was honest, at least.

The detective didn't reply directly to that. Instead, he mentioned, "My beloved was…doctor John Watson, just back from our Afghanistan campaign."

John was shocked for a second, of course he was. But then he quipped, "Well, nobody can say that you don't have a type!"

The consulting detective grinned at that. "You'd think so, would you? But _he_ flaunted a rather impressive moustache."

His blogger's hand raised to his lips. "Should I…Would you like…" he muttered.

"Oh, no," Sherlock answered immediately. "I love you for all the things you have in common, I'll admit – the bravery, the loyalty, the caring nature, even the stubbornness – but I love you also for everything that makes you, you. Because that makes me sure I'm not simply hallucinating his return – he was human till the end, you see, and I had to let him go. I love that you're clean shaven, I love that you know and accepted what I turned into, I love that you don't consider a finger of alcohol the cure to all upset, I love that I can call you by your Christian name without worrying that people will read too much affection into my voice. I even love that we went backwards from how I was brought up and we had sex first and I'm speaking of my feelings now. I love that you gave me the strength to speak up about this all when I was resolved to bring these feelings to my grave. I love _you_."

The werewolf couldn't help it, He got up and was snogging his love without a word until he was breathless. When biology forced them to separate, he said, "I love you too. And in this precise moment, I love that that bugger of a wolf bit me, too. Because one of the things they wrote in the pamphlet I got was that none of the recorded werewolves died in any other way than a violent death. Which might be too much to hope for – I'm not sure how far these records go, in the first place – but I'm pretty sure it means that we have way more than the fifty-sixty years I would probably have otherwise. I don't ever want to leave you, Sherlock. And you better not go off without me again!"

"I'm weird, not entirely crazy," the sleuth replied, smiling. "I would never leave you willingly again, love."

"Good," John growled softly. "So now the only question is, love, your bedroom or mine? Who moves where?"

For a split second, Sherlock blinked, confused by flashback. He'd been madly in love in this house, but they could have never been careless enough to openly share a bedroom, and alarms blared in his head. Then he realised it didn't matter anymore. They'd still be hiding some secrets from the general public, but not this. Never this. "Mine," he decided, grinning, "well, ours now." Simply because it was less shielded than the other. John would turn him into an exhibitionist, if the trend stuck.

Another quick kiss, and John declared, "I'll soon get to the moving part, but before that I have a post to write, love. The genius detective resurrected and, yes, we're a couple, finally. That's news that the world needs right now."

"That's news the years needed years ago," Sherlock quipped. "But all's well that ends well."

"What ending are you speaking of, honey? This is just the start," his blogger countered, grinning.

"Right. Let's both move to the sofa, though," the vampire proposed 'I want to snuggle you while you publish your love declaration' went unspoken, but not unheard.

"Sure. Far more comfortable," the doctor agreed. And when his beloved, in one of his most cat-like displays, decided to lay down and put his head on John's knees, mumbling something about it being easier to read the screen this way, John only nodded and let his hands wander between the keys and the too tempting curls on his lap.

"Now, you'll have to help me with the post, because the only thing that are running through my head at the moment are Princess Bride references – Harry was obsessed with that as a child. You know, stupid puns about you being only 'mostly dead' and not a fake at all, because we found true love..." the werewolf mumbled.

"John, as long as the message is impossible to misunderstand, I don't mind if you use pictures from a children's colouring book," Sherlock admitted, pushing his head against his love's arm like a contented cat.

"Duly noted, love. Ok, let's try this…" the blogger said, writing, _Sherlock is alive (and) in my heart_. And if a few references managed to slip in that immediately viral post after all…nobody had a complaint.


End file.
